


let's keep this professional

by tinypersonhotel



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Jerry Maguire AU, M/M, Slow Burn, asanoya are their babysitters, based on the best sports romantic-dramedy of all time, believe it or not, kagehina are the most troublesome pro volleyball players of all time, starring tsukishima as tom cruise as jerry maguire, yaku and lev are kids, yamaguchi is a hopeless romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypersonhotel/pseuds/tinypersonhotel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the first sincere gesture of Tsukishima Kei’s life costs him his glamorous job as a sports agent, only a wide-eyed, freckled accountant volunteers to jump ship with him. But if the two of them can save the careers of volleyball’s legendary Oddball Duo, things might just work out after all.</p>
<p>Or, the story of how Tsukishima Kei got fired, got married, adopted a kid, and fell in love. In that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. do kids these days even like transformers

**Author's Note:**

> okay but how could i not write a tsukkiyama version of the most endearing sports rom-com of all time???
> 
> the whole fic has already been written; i just need to edit chapters and post! expect about 55k over the next month or so. this is my first fic on ao3 so. HERE GOES

It’s not really one big thing that makes Tsukishima Kei decide to up and ruin his life at 2 am on a Tuesday morning. It’s more a bunch of little things, like the trading cards and the convenience store and the getting told “fuck you” by a twelve-year-old that really push him over the edge.

 

Being a sports agent isn’t exactly a rough gig. All things considered, it might be the most glamorous job in the industry: a generous salary and first-class flights without ever having to break a sweat. Plus Kei thinks there’s something dignified about the anonymity, about being decapitated by cameras at post-game press events, appearing only in the corners of front-page sports section photos. He doesn’t need a grimy jersey for it to be obvious he belongs there; he radiates self-possession, looks overcome with ennui in a suit. He stands impatiently next to his clients during interviews, arms crossed, giving off the vibe that no one else’s job could come _close_ to being as challenging as his, Olympic gold-medalists or not.

 

It’s a position of respect rather than prestige, which suits him. The athletes love the limelight more than enough for the both of them, anyway.

 

Between Kei and thirty-something other agents, Sports Management Nippon handles the careers of almost every Japanese athlete set to appear in Tokyo in 2020. SMN operates out of a too-tall, too-shimmery silver building in Sendai, chosen for its central location and low property taxes. Kei still feels uneasy when he looks at it sometimes—the exterior is made of so much reflective glass that on sunny days it seems to disappear against the cloudless sky. It’s the kind of building people are supposed to _want_ to work in, and the inside is just as pompous and glossy.

 

His older brother, Akiteru, had laughed until there were tears in his eyes when he found out his unfriendly, unapproachable little brother—one who had never suffered fools lightly—had followed him into an industry based on _caring_ about clients.

 

“It’s not about caring,” Kei had answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s about pretending to care.”

 

This is the problem with Kei, though: having someone else tell him he can’t do something has always been way more irritating than just not wanting to do it.

 

Besides, it would be inaccurate to say that Kei doesn’t care about the job. When Kei was young it was true that his teenage listlessness had settled in earlier than average, and then overstayed its welcome. But he’s an adult now—he cares about _some_ things. Like long hours that quash any room for a social life, and an office kitchen with fancy coffee, and more than making ludicrous amounts of money by itself, the jealous expressions of his doltish extended family members whenever they prodded him into _admitting_ these ludicrous amounts of money. It has been pointed out to him more than once that if all he really wanted was to get rich, he could have just become a software engineer, given his preference for isolation. But computer science is just as troublesome as anything else, and Kei is more comfortable when he’s the smartest person in the room.

 

Still, it’s not like he particularly _likes_ managing professional athletes. He never liked athletes, even when he was one, a pretty solid middle blocker on a pretty solid volleyball team in high school. They were self-centered and noisy and glib, es _pec_ ially when you got to the pro level. And now Kei is glib, too, trying to cover up all their glibness to the press—he’s the glibbest of them all.

 

So maybe if Akiteru hadn’t laughed at him when he called from his first day of work, wondering where his older brother’s fabled corner office was, Kei would have left the job long ago. But Akiteru had _lied_ , and worse, he had laughed, and now here Kei is: in the unbearable position of not knowing what to do next.

 

Because honestly there are some troublesome things about this job, too, for sure.

 

If Kei were a better person, maybe the convenience store robbery would have been the last straw. Two bullets in the Lawson near Yagoto Station in Nagoya, one person injured. Not the kind of thing that happens in Japan. And not the kind of act a professional basketball player of all people—a _role_ model, Kei had reminded the guy once they were behind closed doors, one whom Kei himself had secured a two-million dollar contract—should be perpetrating. Kei had left the office seething that night, knowing that his tepid scolding was the worst that guy was ever going to get.

 

Hell, if Kei were a better person—then the trading cards would have been the last straw. The scrawny kid had just wanted an off-brand card signed, one with a glaring typo in the left fielder’s name, even. A card no one would have tried to buy off of eBay. But the left fielder had known that Kei was hovering over his shoulder and replied nervously, “Sorry, I can only sign Topps-brand cards.” The kid hadn’t looked upset so much as confused, but then again, Kei didn’t really stick around to see.

 

Anyway, yeah—it’s the _fuck you_ that really gets to him. Kei’s not a nice guy or anything. He’s charming, in a shallow way, because he has to be in this business, but it’s not anywhere near like this kid’s the first one to call him on his bullshit.

 

The kid’s dad, a hockey guy, is a vicious offensive player. Doesn’t hesitate to hurt anyone when it comes to scoring, including himself. This late night in the hospital isn’t his first concussion—his fourth, actually—but it is his first coma. And when he comes out of it, Kei is already there. Because he’s good at his job. As soon as the doctors shuffle out of the room, he drills the guy.

 

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

“Two.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I’m Miyama Kenji. I play for the Sendai Seahorses.”

 

“And when’s your birthday?”

 

“September…sixteenth?”

 

 _Close enough._ Kei gestures to the man’s family, flanking either side of his bed. “And who are they?”

 

“My radiant wife Junko, and Kenji Jr.” The hockey player smiles. He’s on a roll.

 

“And who am I?”

 

The guy pauses, then his face lights up. “Of course.” He snaps his fingers. “You’re my agent!”

 

Kei isn’t sure whether the guy’s brain is really that scrambled or he if honestly doesn’t know his name. He can’t actually remember Miyama addressing him as anything but _my agent_ at any point in time, but that isn’t necessarily a concussion thing. It might just be a Kei thing.

 

He nods at the guy. “Got anything else rattling around up there?” Somehow he doubts this.

 

Miyama is thoughtful, for a moment. “If I get just one more game in I get my bonus and my wife gets a boat.”

 

“That is accurate,” he replies. “You’ve got a whole week to rest up, so take it easy for now. Miyama-san,” Kei regards the wife, Junko, as he excuses himself from the cramped room.

 

Kei gets a can of coffee from the vending machine and leans against the wall, letting the encouraging smile fall from his face. It’s not that he really _hates_ smiling, he just has to do it so much, and it’s more relaxing not to. Plus he knows he’s good at his job; he doesn’t need to smile about it all the time, once he finds a moment alone.

 

But the kid, Kenji Jr., walks up to the vending machine beside him and punches the button for a can of grape juice. He looks him dead in the eye as if _Kei_ is the nonentity here. He stares back, even though it’s childish to challenge a kid like that, before he finds his smile again.

 

“Shouldn’t someone tell him to stop?” the boy asks, snapping the can of grape juice open with a _hiss._

 

“Kenji Senior?” says Kei, smooth, easy. “Please, it’ll take more than a couple bumps to the head to hurt your dad. The whole Decepticon race couldn’t beat him.”

 

The kid breathes out through his nose. “Fuck you,” he says.

 

The kid is the spoiled son of an ice hockey player from some middle-of-fuck-nowhere town in Hokkaido. Kei wants to remind the kid that _he’s_ the reason he and his mommy and daddy now _summer_ in Hokkaido, the _nice_ parts, but he’s too good to act on his temper.

 

Still, it hits him like a brick in the chest.

 

The way the kid looks at him, like he’s worthless, like he’s _worse_ than worthless, like he’s pathetic—it’s the same way Kei looked at his own older brother, back when he found out why he left SMN.

 

As the kid stomps away, Kei feels the dread of an open space. In this too-long, too-empty hallway, he sees the last few years of his life, years he has been pointedly too busy to reflect upon, and realizes that yes, even on paper, a _lot_ has gone wrong.

 

***

 

But he’s not gonna have a breakdown about it. Please.

 

He’s gonna have a break _through_.

 

Kei wakes up in hotel forty minutes outside Sendai in the middle of the night and suddenly he can feel the air sharp on his skin, the way his fingers all move individually of one another, and— _fuck_ , his feet are repulsively sweaty, did he fall asleep in his socks again?

 

For some reason it’s hilarious to Kei that the first thing he does, having woken up a new person, is tear off his gross sweaty socks. It’s so hilarious he doubles over laughing about it. Then he lurches off the bed, crawls over to the mini fridge, and basks in the cool and the bright light, like he’s blessing himself before—

 

Before what? For a moment he isn’t sure, opening and clenching his fists, and then he grabs the hotel stationery off the nightstand, stumbles into the rolling chair at the desk, and starts writing.

 

After the first couple of pages it occurs to him that typing would be much more efficient, and he laughs at himself again, wondering if he’s _really_ Kei 2.0 or just fucking crazy. But the thought is pushed aside as he boots up his laptop and continues where he left off.

 

Once he starts typing, he finds he can’t stop. He feels like he’s watching his body from afar, and he knows these words are part of the real _Kei_ because they’re coming out of him, but it’s not any part of _Kei_ he’s ever seen before, one who uses words like _empathy_ and _well-being_ and _passion_.

 

But you know what? He’s being fucking honest. The industry is fucked, and Tsukishima Kei is smart, and he’s good at his job, and why shouldn’t people listen to him? So somehow two pages become twenty-five, and he’s adding in the handwritten part to the beginning of the document, giving the whole thing a hasty once-over, and popping it on a flash drive.

 

As he calls a cab on the hotel phone, he wonders again, for a moment, what he’s doing. But he shakes it off, because this has to be a good thing. How could it not be? For god’s sake, he’s almost thirty years old and he has finally decided to _try_.

 

He goes to the 7/11, makes up fifty perfect-bound single-color copies of his work, and hands two hundred-thousand yen bills to the clerk. His hand taps out a nonsensical rhythm on his thigh and he watches the light at the edge of the horizon. He can’t wait to explain it to the senior people at work tomorrow—their strategy is all wrong. It has been all along. This is no way to live. This is no way to treat people. It’s not just compassion, he tells himself. It’s _business sense_. Which he has. In scores.

 

“This,” the kid at the register says to him, “is a really great idea.”

 

They stare down at this thing he’s created, this thing that, just before the crack of dawn, Kei really and truly believes is going to make a difference.

 

_THE THINGS WE THINK AND DO NOT SAY  
(The Future of Our Business)_

_Have you ever wondered about the things that brought you to the place you stand today? Have you ever regretted any of them? Do you ever find yourself looking in the mirror, at your home, at the people you call your friends, and see nothing wrong—but still something is telling you: you can do better than this…_

 

He passes them on to his assistant, Saeko, who of course _wasn’t sleeping, what kind of weirdo is asleep at five in the morning—_ but hey, once she reads this manifesto, she’ll understand why it was so important in the first place.

 

The sun rises. Kei sinks back into bed, at last. As the edges of his consciousness begin to blur, he feels a million things at once, because he is certain he is a new person and that this new person can be good. He feels ecstatic and committed and honestly, kind of high, and something else strong and strange which he cannot identify, but he knows he writes because of this one _thing_ , this complex thing he does not have the vocabulary to express, above any other.

 

Months later, Kei will realize this _thing_ wasn’t so complex at all: he was lonely.

 

***

 

In the cold light of day, of course, Kei cannot fucking be _lieve_ what he has done.

 

He has made some fucking _clown_ moves in his life, sure, but he has always prided himself on making significantly fewer clown moves than would be considered average for one person.

 

On the nightstand his clock says it’s already past ten in the morning. He briefly considers suing the hotel for missing his wake-up call, even though the truth is he probably just slept right through it. Then he wonders if the hotel offers a hitman service, because Kei would really like to call it on himself right now.

 

He calls Saeko, just to check that yeah, the memos really did all go out, and yes, it looks like everyone is reading them right now, and he says, “No, no, of course it’s no problem. It’s fantastic. Just a typo, but that is definitely the draft I wanted to put out there. Thanks again.” He is not quite able to mask his sarcasm.

 

 _How_ did he make such an unnecessary, unprompted, unwarranted, and un _pre_ cedented mistake? He wasn’t even _drunk_.

 

Kei is tempted to take the longest shower of his life, but he’s always been the kind of person who prefers to rip the Band-Aid off fast when bad shit is coming his way. There’s no need to prolong his misery. If he’s walking in only so he can get fired and walk right back out, he might as well get an early start on the day of drunken, public Taiko Drum Master that is sure to follow.

 

When Kei arrives at his too-tall, too-shimmery building and rides the elevator to the third floor from the top, he gets the feeling he’s walking into an ambush. So he tries to stand even taller than usual, more dignified, maybe even unapproachable and intimidating, the way he had perfected as a teenager.

 

When he steps off the elevator, sure enough, everyone looks up. Most of them are holding his memos. _Shit_ , he thinks. _No, fuck_. Does he know any curse words more emphatic than _fuck_? Because he feels that way right now—more emphatic than _fuck_. Panic climbs in his throat as he realizes there is no cool way for him to play off this colossal mistake.

 

But as he gapes, searching for words, something strange happens. Someone _claps_.

 

And that someone is followed by another person, and another, until pretty much every last one of his coworkers is showering him with applause, memos waving in their hands like pennants at a game. Which is mortifying, don’t get him wrong—but mortified is infinitely better than fired, and if Kei can get out of this mess just mortified, then he’s learned a cheap lesson.

 

 _What’s the lesson, exactly?_ he wonders. Maybe that genuine revelations never happen at two in the morning, or that he should throw his laptop out of his twenty-fourth floor apartment window.

 

His junior, Oikawa, comes up and claps him on the shoulder in his friendly way which, today more than ever, makes Kei want to sock him in the face. The action is way too bro-ish for either of them and Kei knows he knows it.

 

“You really went and said it, Kei-chan.” Oikawa smiles. “Let me take you out to lunch soon, ‘kay?”

 

Kei sighs. “As long as it’s not a sports bar.”

 

“Please, we’re too classy for _sports_ ,” Oikawa replies, releasing his shoulder. Kidding or not, he’s not exactly wrong.

 

Kei nods tersely at his colleagues as he navigates the cubicles to his corner office, trying his best to look humble, or collected, or anything but about-to-fucking-vomit, and he collapses at his desk like he’s just run a marathon with the flu. He has always tried to be cool, which in a way he guess counts as avoiding criticism. But he has also never known how to handle praise, and on three hours sleep he feels as if he’s aged fifteen years.

 

Maybe he should reconsider whether he's so different from Akiteru after all.

 

By the kitchen, away from the crowd, Kuroo Testurou peers at the door to Kei’s office.

 

“How long you give him?” Kuroo asks his assistant, exhaling through his nose as Kei closes the blinds.

 

Kenma doesn’t look up from his phone. “Mmm. A week.”

 

***

 

As Kei creeps out of his office that night, he half-expects to be taken out by a sniper. But there are no high-speed bullets, no pink slips. He is safe, maybe.

 

Still, he sees his memos in the wastebasket by the elevator door.

 

***

 

By the time the season’s basketball playoffs are over and the Sports Management Nippon people are filing on the plane back to Sendai, Kei has still encountered no consequences for his actions in addition to wild embarrassment. He hopes, cautiously, that people have already begun to forget about his memo, about the way he advocated for fewer clients, for stricter regulations. He still feels shame burn his skin when he remembers the hockey player’s son, so he isn’t convinced he was wrong, but if no one else agrees with him, then there is nothing he can do about that.

 

Miraculously, he doesn’t end up seated next to any of his coworkers. But he’s still surrounded by the other agents and senior people in rows nearby, all of them somewhat subdued by the busy weekend. He finds himself wishing he were seated with the assistants and accountants and other lower-level managers a few rows behind in economy. Like a middle-schooler kicked out from the popular table at lunch, he thinks, stuck throwing himself on the mercy of his nerdier peers.

 

His seat partner, it turns out, is a woman from one of the playoffs’ primary advertising firms. She still seems to be running on the high of a successful weekend. She’s younger than he is, so it’s possible this was her first event. She is friendly in a mature way that makes it hard for him to ask her to shut up, even though all he wants to do is sleep. Besides, he’s still well in earshot of all his most competitive coworkers, so it’s not safe to drop the fake-charming attitude just yet.

 

At least it’s a domestic flight, he consoles himself. Barring bad weather, it’s impossible for it to take more than two hours to get from any point A to point B in Japan.

 

“You’re with the sports people, too, right?” she asks.

 

“Yep,” he says.

 

“I’m with Kinshachi Promos.”

 

“Sports Management Nippon.”

 

“Wow.” She raises her eyebrows, dragging the word out in a way that Kei can tell is genuine. “You’re an agent, then? How’d your guys do?”

 

Kei shrugs. “Some better than others.”

 

“Any of them show up in my commercial?”

 

They compare client lists, and Kei finds it’s not such a _horrible_ distraction, though putting on his headphones and falling asleep would be infinitely better. The woman is nice, though, and self-possessed, the kind of personality he had trouble making fun of even when he tried his hardest, back in high school.

 

At industry events Kei’s coworkers act jealous of him for the attention he sometimes receives from young women. He always rolls his eyes at this—he’s pretty positive it only happens because he’s gay, and thus nonthreatening. They’re pretty much never actually _into_ him—he just doesn’t give off the same creepy, overly assertive vibes they do, so he’s relatively approachable. Not that any of his macho blockhead coworkers could wrap their heads around that.

 

Kei and the advertising women find out they have a basketball player in common, and they talk about his season. The conversation seems to die, and Kei rummages around his bag for his headphones, a little relieved, when the girl leans in conspiratorially and says, “Hey, can I get your opinion on something?”

 

***

 

A few rows back, in economy, Yamaguchi Tadashi hears warm, easy laughter from the front of the plane.

 

“Boy problems are so em _bar_ rassing,” the young woman’s voice rings out.

 

“Not really,” says the man, his voice so flat it’s hysterical. “Everyone’s got boy problems.”

 

He bites his tongue to keep from blowing his cover. The woman laughs again, then the volume of the conversation drops. He furrows his brow. No fair. They’re obviously discussing all the really juicy details now, and Tadashi will be damned if he doesn’t get to hear when it’s the man’s turn to share his worst date ever.

 

Tadashi quietly unbuckles his seatbelt and strains forward, until he is almost out of his seat. He thinks he hears something about a rowboat, but it could also be a robot, and either way it’s way more interesting than any date _he’s_ ever been on.

 

Next to him his kid jolts up abruptly to sneeze three times in a row.

 

Tadashi makes a sympathetic noise—his poor baby. It seems like he has a new cold every month. “You’re a trooper, Yaku,” he tells his son, patting his hair. “When we land we’ll get you fixed up with some hot cocoa. A big hot cocoa.”

 

“With sprinkles?” Yaku asks, his consonants muddled by congestion.

 

“You don’t put sprinkles in hot cocoa,” Tadashi says. Then he nudges him and adds, “Well, not without whipped cream, anyway.”

 

Yaku sneezes once more in response, nuzzling his runny nose into his father’s sweater. He curls up, head lolling forward after only a moment. Tadashi smiles at him adoringly. He really is a good kid.

 

Then he laser-focuses his attention back on the gossiping couple from business class.

 

***

 

“So I told him,” Kei continues, “that if I really meant anything to him at all, he would stay the hell away from me.”

 

“No!” the girl squeaks, but she’s smiling bigger than ever. “And did he?”

 

“Obviously not.” _Because the guy isn’t real._

 

Lying is a better distraction than not-completely-painful small talk, and easier. The advertising woman is totally enchanted, and he’s never gonna see her again once they step off the plane, so he makes an effort to up the stakes of his sweeping, fictional college romance. She’s so excited Kei wouldn’t be surprised if she burst into a shower of confetti, which shouldn’t annoy him, but sort of does, and it makes him want to lie even more.

 

“So what happened next?” _Nothing._

“It’s embarrassing.”

 

“Please?” She flutters her eyelashes jokingly. _Might as well._

 

“Well, it involved a motorcycle, a championship soccer team, and a lot of expensive champagne.”

 

***

 

There is one person who likes Kei’s story more than the advertising woman, and that person is Yamaguchi Tadashi. While the stewards aren’t looking, he kneels on the floor, pretending to look for a fictional contact, straining to hear the rest of this guy’s swoon-worthy, heart-fluttering romance.

 

Behind him, Yaku wakes up again, his voice groggy and confused. “Dad…?” he asks. Tadashi looks back at him and pats his knees, which are cold to the touch in the plane’s icebox climate.

 

“Shh, not now. Daddy’s eavesdropping.”

 

Yaku coughs and Tadashi shoves more tissues in the direction of his beloved, but at present, significantly less interesting, son. He tries to look sympathetic to his sick kid, but he can’t stop smiling at the man’s deadpan delivery of his love life.

 

“But in the end it didn’t work out. It didn’t matter what we had done for each other. We weren’t right.”

 

“You’ve really got it all figured out, huh, Kei-kun.”

 

“Hardly,” the man, Kei-kun, says. There’s a pause, and Tadashi thinks the conversation may be over. Then he speaks again: “I mean, I’m going to see him tonight for the first time in years, at this insufferably romantic restaurant in downtown Sendai.”

 

The girl squeals. “You jerk! You’re so bad.”

 

Tadashi frowns. He moves back into his seat, pulling the seatbelt taut.

 

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

 

“First class is what’s wrong,” Tadashi mutters.

 

“Okay,” Yaku says, stifling a yawn and curling back into his chair.

 

Tadashi sighs. He should probably have been doing work, anyway—he missed a lot because of the playoffs, and tomorrow he has to go into the office again. He pages through his binder, pausing between a receipt and a printout of a spreadsheet. His hand hovers over the memo passed out at the office  a week before, cover already worn.

 

***

 

Practically the first thing Tadashi does when he gets off the plane is lose his cold-ridden kid.

 

“Yaku?” he calls out for the hundredth time, as he weaves his way through well-dressed sports people mingling and waiting for their baggage. “Yaku, I swear to god, if you don’t come back this instant, I’m gonna—”

 

“Gonna what?” Kei asks. Tadashi whirls around.

 

“Use my _outdoor voice_ ,” he squeaks. The guy has the same voice as the _Kei-kun_ from the plane, meaning the guy who told those stories is the stoic guy from his office is the guy who wrote the memo he is currently clutching like a megaphone in a desperate search for his son. The equation fizzles his brain for a moment, and he wonders if it’s possible to literally die from embarrassment.

 

“Aren’t you already?”

 

He rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “Fair.”

 

“I’m not an expert on kids,” Kei says, “but have you tried looking”—he glances over Tadashi’s shoulder, toward the luggage conveyor belt—“over there?”

 

Tadashi spins around again, fast, and he is sure if this keeps happening he is going to get dizzy and throw up all over this cute guy who he knows is also a) smart, b) into dudes, and c) his savior, seeing as he just spotted Yaku, who is taking a nap on someone’s luggage and getting plenty of odd looks from the other people in Domestic Arrivals.

 

“Yaku!” he shouts, his voice squeaking again. Yaku looks up and climbs down carefully, ambling toward his exasperated father. Tadashi is furious, but more importantly he is relieved, and he kisses his son on the face before he can remember his highly contagious cold.

 

“Thank you,” Tadashi breaths, careful not to turn around too fast to face Kei again. He is surprised to see Kei is already leaving, apparently trying to make a quiet escape. He looks up, expression a little pained.

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

Tadashi smiles, then kneels in front of his son. “Yaku, do you remember the word imagination?” he asks. Yaku nods. “Okay, well, I want you to _imagine_ me screaming at you right now, like I would if Daddy’s coworker weren’t here. So you should say ‘thank you’, too.”

 

Yaku walks over to Kei and grabs his leg. At first Kei thinks it’s a hug, but apparently he thinks he’s a human jungle gym. He latches on and starts to shimmy up. Kei stiffens. Referring to himself as _no expert_ earlier was a gross understatement. Tadashi watches the exchange with more amusement than apology.

 

“I’m Yamaguchi, by the way,” he says. “Yamaguchi—”

 

“Tadashi,” he finishes the sentence. Kei tries quickly to move past the fact that he has never addressed this guy before in his life and just inadvertently called him by his first name. He saves it: “I know. You work in accounts with Shimizu-san. You have a poster of a Saturn V rocket on your cubicle.”

 

Tadashi’s stomach flips at this guy knowing what a Saturn V rocket looks like. “Pretty good.”

 

“And I’m—”

 

“I know who you are,” Tadashi says quickly, holding up the memo in his hand. “I liked your memo, by the way.”

 

“Is that so?” Kei says. Yaku is making progress up his leg, and he desperately hopes that his kid doesn’t accidentally grab his colleague’s butt.

 

“Yeah, it was…inspiring,” he says. “And very honest. I think it’ll really change some minds.”

 

Kei pushes his glasses up, purposefully obscuring his face. “Is that so?” he repeats.

 

“I mean, it changed mine. That part about _truly seeing our clients, as well as ourselves, as complex and fully-formed human beings_ —” Tadashi is quoting his memo directly back to him, and suddenly Kei could just _die_.

 

“Please, Yamaguchi-san,” he mumbles into his hand, which he presses flat to his face. They are still surrounded by SMN people and Kei prays none of them can see him losing his cool.

 

“Sorry, Tsukishima-san. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

 

His hand drops from his face. He isn’t smiling anymore, but his shoulders relax. “Yeah, well. I brought it upon myself.” He sighs and pats Yaku’s hair, motioning for the kid to climb down. “I’ll see you at the office, Yamaguchi-san.”

 

“Have fun on your date,” Tadashi calls after him.

 

Kei screws up his face.

 

“At the restaurant. With your dashing ex-lover.”

 

“Oh. You heard—on the plane?” Kei says. _Oh my god._ “That story wasn’t true.” He can feel himself wince on the last word.

 

This makes Tadashi feel a few things at once, with surprising intensity—first there’s the relief that this hot tall guy isn’t going on a date tonight, because anyone on a date with him would _definitely_ ask him out a second time; then there’s the confusion about why the earnest person who wrote the memo in his hands would lie so boldly; then there’s the embarrassment of having admitted that he was eavesdropping the whole time.

 

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, Tsukishima-san.”

 

Kei sighs, stepping closer so he can keep his voice low. “It’s nice you read my memo, but that’s not really the person I am. It’s more like…someone I’m trying to be.” He looks away. “I guess old habits die hard.”

 

“Maybe not as hard as you think,” Tadashi offers helpfully.

 

He finds himself considering this. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

 

As Kei disappears into the crowd—well, never really disappearing, his blonde hair floating inches above everyone else—Tadashi feels a tap on his shoulder.

 

“Did you pull your luggage off the conveyor belt yet,” asks Akaashi, “or were you planning on flirting in front of your son for few more minutes?”

 

“Keiji!” Tadashi exclaims. “No, I—I haven’t gotten the luggage yet. Help me get it into the car?”

 

“That’s what brothers are for,” Akaashi says. The eye roll is implied. “Come on, collect your offspring and I’ll take the suitcase. You should really considering investing in a leash for that kid.”

 

Tadashi sticks out his tongue, but he isn’t wrong—Yaku has already begun to wander again, crouching in front of a potted plant. Tadashi sweeps him up before he can stick his hands in the dirt.

 

Suitcase in hand, Akaashi tilts his head toward the door. “We’d better go. I left Asahi parked illegally and I’m worried he’ll pass out from the stress if we don’t hurry.”

 

Tadashi winces. “You should be nicer to him.” Akaashi shrugs and leads the way. Tadashi eyes his clothes and giggles. “Did you forget to take off your scrubs?”

 

He looks down. “Shit, not again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we meet kagehina next chapter 0:^)


	2. that’s kobe beef, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kei faces the consequences. Yamaguchi makes a questionable decision. Akiteru is bad at texting.

“I’m back.”

 

Kei’s apartment is empty—he doesn’t even have a cat or a fish or anything—but he says it as a joke to himself because, to be honest, thank _god_ he lives alone. Pretending to be nice all day long is exhausting.

 

People who think he’s secretly a softie or a sweetheart are delusional.

 

Sure, people had tried (their attempts ranging from fruitless to miserable) to destroy what had been described to him more than once as _emotional walls_. This kind of metaphor grates on his nerves. He doesn’t like being treated like a game, and people who say things like that are always projecting. Kei is reserved and reasonably good-looking; of course people are going to see what they want to see.

 

That Yamaguchi guy, though. He’s probably one of those unwitting heartbreakers, with that bright honesty and those freckles. Yamaguchi-san, he imagines, is the type to operate an emotional-wall wrecking ball. Without a license.

 

Not that it has anything to do with him.

 

He’s wall-free.

 

He finds himself humming as he pulls ingredients out of the refrigerator. He’s in a better mood than he has been in since—well, since he started tuning out his moods. He survived another playoffs weekend; he had a conversation that didn’t make him want to commit a crime. Maybe he really is becoming Kei 2.0.

 

Well, he’ll believe it when he sees it.

 

Just as Kei is really getting into chopping vegetables, humming a little louder, his cell phone starts buzzing. _Incoming Call – Akiteru._ He wipes his hands on a dish towel and picks up.

 

“What?”

 

“ _What?_ That’s your greeting now? What if I’d been a client, Kei?”

 

“Caller ID. I’m not careless.”

 

“Hmm? I’ve heard otherwise these last few days.”

 

Kei sighs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Word is you sent out a certain memo,” he says, “with a _typo_.”

 

Fucking Saeko. He should never have hired Akiteru’s college friends to do anything.

 

“Yeah,” Kei says. “A twenty-five page typo.”

 

“The correct draft was just supposed to say ‘career suicide’ over and over again, wasn’t it?”

 

“Hey,” Kei growls, even though he knows Akiteru isn’t trying to be cruel. Kei has no problem with a little cruelty now and then, though. “You’re one to talk.”

 

Akiteru doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is softer, though, after that. “Hey now, I didn’t go out with such a bang. Besides, I heard people liked it, at least. Even if it’s a little edgy for sports peoples’ tastes.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Well, let me know how it all works out. Sometimes I miss the drama. I’m depending on you to keep me up to date on everything,” he says. “Call me soon.”

 

“I will,” Kei says, even though he knows Akiteru knows he won’t.

 

He scrutinizes the tomatoes bleeding on the cutting board in front of him. Suddenly the idea of dinner is about as enjoyable as—well, as enjoyable as having another conversation about his godforsaken memo. He turns on some music, flops down on his bed, and—not for the first time this week—falls asleep with all of his clothes on.

 

***

 

The next day Kei has a brutal headache like he’s been drinking, even though he hasn’t been able to touch alcohol since the memo-writing incident. If he can’t trust himself sober he doesn’t care to find out what he’ll do under the influence of liquor.

 

The day is uncharacteristically slow. Post-playoffs are, sometimes. Saeko looks even more ready to fall asleep at her computer than usual, staring at Kei’s empty calendar. By the time noon rolls around he realizes he didn’t even pack a bento. He leans back in his office chair and sighs.

 

A knock comes at his door. Oikawa pokes in his head, grinning. “Kei-chan, did you think I would forget about our lunch date?”

 

Kei scrutinizes him, then sighs. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

 

“I’m _always_ serious, Kei-chan,” he says. His voice is so unserious Kei can’t decide whether he’s kidding or hopelessly non-self-aware. This is what has always made him a little uncomfortable around Oikawa—he’s never understood how someone so frivolous could also be so persuasive. It’s off-putting.

 

“It’s really not necessary,” he says. “I have work to do.”

 

“We all have work to do,” Oikawa scolds him. “Plus, there are some matters that need attending to.”

 

He raises his eyebrows. The idea of lunch with a coworker like Oikawa might make him nauseous if he had any food in his stomach, but then again, he hasn’t eaten since the plane last night.

 

“Your treat, then.”

 

“Of course!” Oikawa sings, yanking him by the shoulders from his chair.

 

The restaurant is pretty nice for lunch hour fare—nothing fancy, and busy, but not the kind of place where business people shovel meals into their mouths in fifteen seconds flat, either. Kei rubs his temples at his non-hangover on his way back from the bathroom, appreciating the relative calm, when he sees Oikawa has already ordered them a bottle of wine.

 

“A little early to be drinking, isn’t it?” Kei says.

 

“Hmmm?” Oikawa hums. “Not after those playoffs. Your guy basically won the last game for them, right? He’ll be headed for the Olympics next year for sure. You should be celebrating that.” He pauses, smiles as Kei takes his seat at the table. “Among other things.”

 

Kei doesn’t pick up on what he means—doesn’t want to—but he shifts defensively in his chair.

 

Oikawa has always been a thousand times better at the people game than he is, but it will take more than a little uncertainty to fluster Tsukishima Kei.

 

“Shouldn’t we be drinking beer, at least? Since we’re a couple of dumb jocks.”

 

“We’re not the meathead types, are we, Kei-chan?” There it is again—that sharpness. Oikawa has to know it’s showing through—hard edges protruding from his warm and bubbly personality.

 

“Let’s just talk business,” he replies. The other man’s playfulness only makes his headache worse. On anyone else, he would recognize it as flirtatious. That doesn’t mean it’s _not_ flirtatious; it’s just not genuine. The guy would flirt with a locked door if he wanted it open.

 

“So what’s this meeting about, again?” Kei continues, avoiding eye contact. He takes out a pen and writes across the top of his napkin, somewhat uselessly, NOTES.

 

Oikawa waits until he looks back up. “I came here to let you go, Kei-chan.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“To fire you. You know.” He mimes decapitation, making a face like, _yikes_.

 

Kei waits, as if something is supposed to come next. It would be inaccurate to say he is _surprised_ , but two weeks late, and by Oikawa…?

 

Well, it’s not quite how he imagined it.

 

Oikawa tilts his head. “This isn’t a test, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

 

‘Test’ isn’t exactly what he was thinking. ‘Joke’, maybe, or—god—he takes another look around the busy restaurant, buries his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he groans. “You brought me here so I wouldn’t make a scene.”

 

“Any kid with divorced parents could puzzle that one out.”

 

“And on a Friday afternoon.”

 

“So your contacts won’t be around until Monday.” Oikawa yawns.

 

“I _know_ that,” he snaps.

 

Oikawa sighs. “We mean it when we say it was a pleasure working with you,” he says, “but we were never planning on making this easy for you, Kei-chan.”

 

Kei considers what he wondered earlier, about Oikawa’s self-awareness—and understands that this guy has it in spades. He had known Oikawa was good, of course, but not that good. Not a strategist. Not like himself.

 

He continues: “Come on, Kei-chan. You said it yourself—fewer clients. Less money. That’s just bad business sense.” He shrugs. “Although it is impressive. For all of one morning there you had people _excited_ about smaller salaries.”

 

“Why you?” he asks.

 

“Why not?” Oikawa replies, smiling, and he must recognize the betrayal on Kei’s face. He raises his hands. “Now, now. I know you showed me the ropes when I joined SMN, but it’s not like I haven’t been gunning for your corner office since day one.”

 

Kei doesn’t say anything.

 

“Come on,” Oikawa says. “Aren’t you going to yell at me? Make a scene? The way you’re just sitting there is starting to creep me out.”

 

Kei stands, and sighs loudly enough that it turns a few heads from other tables. “It was great talking to you, Oikawa-san. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a few calls.”

 

“You don’t want the wine?” Oikawa makes an exaggerated, puzzled expression. Kei hesitates, then grabs the bottle off the table. It’s going to be a long fucking day.

 

***

 

The adrenaline has set in by the time Kei gets back to the office. He locks his door and pulls down the blinds, and instructs Saeko not to let anyone bother him unless that person is an internationally ranked athlete.

 

Okay, he thinks. Seventy-two clients. How should he do this? Alphabetically? Talent-wise? Most likely to play in Rio in 2016?

 

He calls Bokuto first.

 

“Hey, Tsukishima!” Bokuto’s voice is so loud it comes through distorted, but Kei has gotten used to interpreting it for their phone conversations. “I’ve got Oikawa Tooru on the other line, you know—you guys wanna make this a three-way?”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“What’s up with you, Tsukishima? You sound tense. Relax. It’s a sunny day, the sky is blue, volleyballs are round—”

 

“Not tense. Fantastic day. Thanks for asking.”

 

Bokuto laughs—or at least Kei is pretty sure that’s what the hooting sound on the other end is. “You don’t need to lie to me, Tsukishima. Oikawa told me you got fired. Said you flipped your lid, were planning on dropping some of your clients…but I told him there’s no way Tsukishima Kei would drop _me_.”

 

“That’s absolutely right—”

 

“Who would drop Bokuto Koutarou, future Olympic ace?” Bokuto laughs some more, and if Kei hadn’t personally assigned him a nutritionist, he would be sure his client was riding a permanent sugar high.

 

“Japan’s counting on you, Bokuto-san,” Kei says. “Can I count on you, too?”

 

“Of course,” Bokuto replies. “All that matters to me is that I play, Tsukishima. I don’t care about endorsements or big contracts. I just wanna win.”

 

“Is that so?” He exhales; his lungs burn from breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “That’s great.”

 

“Tell you what—you’re gonna be at that mixer thing next week, right? We can figure out all the details there, you know, signing papers or whatever. And you can tell me your plan to get me that gold medal.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Of course! And Tsukishima?”

 

“Yes, Bokuto-san?”

 

“Don’t flip your lid.”

 

Bokuto starts laughing again and Kei knows that if he doesn’t hang up now it’ll just keep on going. He has seventy-one other clients to save, and he has no idea how he’s going to manage them without any employees, an insurance program, or office space, but the thought of being the second Tsukishima cut out of the industry is more than he can bear right now.

 

Unfortunately, the rest don’t go so smoothly.

 

***

 

Something is off at Sports Management Nippon. Tadashi just isn’t sure what.

 

He passes a folder off to Kiyoko, the head accountant, who seems unfazed by the unusual atmosphere. Not that he’s ever seen her fazed, period. But since she’s the most likely to provide an impartial response, he decides to ask her what’s up.

 

Kiyoko doesn’t look away from her screen. “They fired Tsukishima Kei today. Did it at Hill Bottom Café.”

 

“Oh,” Tadashi says. It comes out a little higher than he means it to. This is…weirdly upsetting.

 

He stares at the door to Tsukishima’s office, like if he concentrates hard enough he can burn a hole through it to see the other side.

 

Weirdly _very_ upsetting.

 

***

 

Still in the restaurant, Oikawa sits making calls from his cell. He waves over the waitress with an apologetic smile, and mimes that he would like another coffee. She nods.

 

“Tsukishima-san?” he says. “Oh, no, he’s okay. Well, he _will_ be okay, eventually, we all sure do hope. But he did go fucking bananas, and you’ve got the semifinals right around the corner, Miyama-san, so you need an agent in as top form as you are. Is that so? …Of course. I’m glad to hear that. I’ll pass along your well wishes to Tsukishima-san, poor thing.”

 

***

 

After sixty-nine other clients, the most he has gotten is Bokuto’s word. Half of the people he calls have been poached by Oikawa first; the other half are tied up with SMN in a number of legal and financial manners.

 

Yachi Hitoka, the figure skater, is particularly hysterical.

 

“I’m so sorry, Ts-tsukishima-san,” she hiccups. “If it weren’t for the Bepsi deal you _know_ I’d go with you, the way you were always so calm made _me_ calm at the Junior Olympics last year, and you really helped my family out of a pinch, and I’m sorry for that time I hid from you at postgame press, you were just always so _tall_ …”

 

“Yachi-san, please don’t refer to me in the past tense.”

 

This just makes her wail even louder, and Tsukishima decides it’s time to hang up.

 

Right. Seventy clients out of seventy-two. And the remaining two…

 

Well, there’s a reason he calls the Oddball Duo last.

 

He’s not sure who answers first, Hinata or Kageyama—there’s a scuffle, a few loud greetings followed by louder insults—but it’s Hinata who manages to wrestle away the phone, while their son Lev can be heard laughing in the background and repeating _dumbass! dumbass!_

 

 _It’s true, your dads are both dumbasses!_ Another voice in the background—the babysitter, Noya.

 

Kei says, as brightly as he can manage, “I’m glad you answered, Hinata. How are things? It’s Tsukishima Kei.”

 

“Oh, hey, Tsukishima. We’re great! Well, _I’m_ great, and Tobio’s shoulder is on the mend—we would be ready to return to the Sunbirds in a week, if they’d take us back. Didn’t you tell them we have a kid—sweet, precious little baby Lev over there—we’re responsible parents, Kei! We need to play.”

 

Tsukishima thinks of telling this dumb jock that _if you’re such responsible parents why’d you let yourself get in trouble in the first place_ and _are you sure your kid’s that sweet_ and _don’t call me Kei_ , but instead he just says, “Of course, Hinata.”

 

To call Hinata and Kageyama “oddballs” is both an understatement and insufficiently descriptive. He would know—he’d been with them since they emerged as the MVPs in the university finals five years prior. They had been playing at the national level with the Suntory Sunbirds, but had never been able to work out a deal with _the_ national team, or gone to the annual Asian Games. For a few weeks they had been on indefinite, unofficial probation—the coach had played it as a hiatus for Kageyama’s shoulder, which he had wrenched at the last qualifying playoff. But they had told Hinata to take a vacation as well, and the Sunbirds’ management had been silent when Kei emailed asking for a return date.

 

The first problem with Hinata and Kageyama is that they refuse to be separated. The national team had never been looking for both a setter and a middle blocker at the same time since their pro careers took off. And while the number of points Hinata scored was undeniable, coaches were still nervous about taking him on in a defensive position given the team’s strategic preference for solid blocks. Kei had argued his best for the two of them, but the truth was he knew they were more trouble than they were worth.

 

Because even though Kageyama had enabled Hinata enough killer spikes to be immortalized in the hall of fame upon retirement, the two of them also had more penalties than anyone in the sport. And they weren’t penalties for anything technical, either. They were all behavioral. Half of these penalties—and there were at least a _hundred_ since they went pro—were for the screaming matches they devolved into on the court. Usually one of them landed a punch on the other before someone tore them apart.

 

The other half of the penalties gave Kei even worse a headache than the fist fights. Because sometimes, after a particularly fierce combo, Hinata would leap onto Kageyama, knocking him to the ground, and ferociously make out with his husband.

 

At first the press kind of got a kick out of it. There was at least one viral video of them being asked why they couldn’t just wait until the end of the game, in which Hinata simply looked puzzled, exchanged glances with Kageyama, jabbed a thumb at him, and said _I mean, you’ve_ seen _how good he looks when he tosses, right?_

 

The charm kind of wore off after the third offense, and people’s reactions ranged from slightly nauseated to utterly disbelieving that two volleyball savants could be so fucking stupid.

 

Kei had to agree with them on that.

 

Hinata’s voice brings him back to the present.

 

“We got a call from Oikawa Tooru telling us you’re out, Tsukishima. Out of control, out of SMN, you know, whatever. Was he telling the truth? Are you not gonna get us onto the Olympic team anymore, Tsukishima?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Kei snaps. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am definitely going to get the _both_ of you onto the Olympic team, and I’m gonna get you onto the national team before that, and you guys are gonna be headed straight for the hall of fame, together.”

 

“Good,” Hinata says. “Because we _are_ a package deal.”

 

 _That’s always been the problem, you assholes,_ he thinks. What he says is “I hear you, Hinata.”

 

“Well, that’s a relief. Because when it comes to Oikawa Tooru? My super-hot husband can’t stand the guy.”

 

“That’s right, I can’t stand him,” Kageyama confirms, leaning into the phone.

 

“He says Oikawa Tooru is an asshole!”

 

“Oikawa Tooru is an asshole,” Kageyama confirms.

 

“Lucky for you,” Hinata chimes, and he is pretty sure he can hear them kiss on the other end.

 

“Can’t you just put the phone on speaker?” Kei asks.

 

“And what? Talk business in front of our sweet baby Lev?” Hinata _tsks_. “That wouldn’t be very good parenting, Tsukishima.”

 

“Well, you’re the expert,” Kei mutters.

 

“Exactly! We _are_ experts. We are expert dads. We are expert volleyball players. And you’re gonna get us onto the Olympic team. Twenty-sixteen, and then 2020. Tokyo, baby!”

 

“And then wherever it is in 2024,” Kageyama adds.

 

“And 2028! And whichever year comes after that!”

 

“It’s 2032, dumbass!”

 

 _You’re_ both _dumbasses if you think you’re still gonna be playing in your 40s,_ Kei thinks. He opens his mouth to respond in the affirmative, but Hinata, apparently, is not done speaking.

 

“We are a valuable commodity. I spike down the _line._ My husband is a _genius._ We see some dude coming after that kill and we _take_ it from him. We’re fucking crazy, Kei.”

 

There is a clatter on the other end, and he can hear Kageyama yelling at Lev and Noya.

 

“We’ve been together for ten fucking years! No one can tear us apart. We are in _vin_ cible! When I spike, the _ball_ is fucking afraid of it. We’re _hot_. We’re on _fire._ We’re Kobe beef, baby!”

 

 ** _HELL_** _YEAH,_ Lev yells in the background.

 

 ** _HECK_** _YEAH_ , Noya corrects.

 

He feels the headache creeping up on him.

 

“Of course,” Kei says. “Can I count on you to stay with me, Hinata?”

 

The pause on the other end makes Kei so nervous he would worry about throwing up, if he had had anything to eat since last fucking night. Fucking lunch meeting. Fucking Oikawa.

 

Then, at last, Hinata says, “Of course. Are you happy, Tsukishima?”

 

“Yes, I am…happy.”

 

“He’s happy! Hey guys, Tsukishima is happy!” Hinata calls out to the other people in the room, which is met with laughter. “Oh, but there is one thing you have to promise us.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“We’ve just got one simple rule around here, in the holy Hinata-Kageyama household.”

 

“…What _is_ it?”

 

“We don’t win alone.”

 

Yup—there it is—that is definitely a migraine. Frustration barely repressed anymore, he repeats, “You don’t win alone.”

 

Hinata _tsks_. “No, not _you_ don’t win alone! _We_. Me, you, Tobio, Noya, Lev, Kusama—”

 

 _Who the_ fuck _is Kusama_ , Kei thinks.

 

“Nobody wins alone! Have you ever noticed how real life is _just_ like volleyball? You rely on us, we rely on you—you gotta promise us we’re gonna stick together. Say it back to me! We don’t win alone.”

 

“We don’t win alone,” he mumbles.

 

“We can’t hear you, Tsukishima!”

 

“We don’t win _alone_ ,” Kei snaps, and his anger must register as enthusiasm, because Hinata cheers. In the background he can hear Lev and the babysitter screaming it, too. _We don’t win alone._

 

“Alright,” Hinata says. “That’s all we needed to hear. We’ll talk soon. Oh, but say hi to Noya before you go?”

 

“Hi, Kei-san,” Noya says into the phone.

 

“Hello, Nishinoya-san.”

 

“You had enough of these two yet?”

 

On the wall in front of him, Tsukishima has a picture of every single one of his clients, their game numbers, their family. He used to have to work to keep all of that information straight.

 

Used to.

 

“Not even close,” Kei says.

 

***

 

Oikawa leans on the doorway to his office—not the nicest on the floor, but _that’s_ about to be remedied, he thinks, as he watches Kei’s silhouette pacing behind the blinds.

 

Kuroo appears and clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Wow. You look like you had a good day,” he says. “Did you finally fulfill your lifelong dream of hunting humans for sport?”

 

“Gross, Kuro-chan,” Oikawa says, but his voice is low, eyes on Kei’s door. “But not entirely inaccurate. And I had a _perfect_ day, thanks for asking.”

 

“Almost perfect,” corrects Kenma. “He got those two volleyball weirdos, didn’t he?”

 

Oikawa sniffs. “Let him have them.”

 

Kuroo stretches and peers out the window—pitch black. He didn’t get to take a nap today—Kenma was out running errands and couldn’t sit guard in front of his office like he usually does. Why did he choose an industry with such godawful hours, again?

 

It suits Oikawa, though, he thinks. As far as he knows, the guy never sleeps.

 

He considers Kei and the Oddball Duo for a moment. “It’s more efficient if the three of them crash and burn together, isn’t it,” he says.

 

At last, the light blinks out in their former colleague’s office, and the door swings open. The whole floor freezes, and the day’s palpable tension comes to a head.

 

At his desk, Tadashi swallows.

 

Kei steps out, and for a moment it seems as if he’s going to ignore the hundred or so eyes pointed his way. He clears his throat. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to do what you all think I’m going to do. I’m not going to, you know”—and then his voice gets really dark, which is kind of terrifying, but also makes Tadashi’s face burn—“ _flip out_.”

 

Kei takes a long, hard, withering look at the people around him. “You’re pathetic. All of you. And I’m done being like you.”

 

His eyes swivel, pinning an unassuming junior agent to the wall with his glare. The blood drains from her face. Tadashi tenses, a little afraid and a little excited that he has no idea what’s coming next.

 

Kei continues: “I helped build this company into what it _is_. That’s just a fact. I streamlined our operations. I set the precedents these last five years. I’ve been changing the game since day one, but I guess you guys are suddenly too stupid to follow my lead.”

 

He pauses. No one moves.

 

“Anyone?” Kei asks. “Is _anyone_ coming with me?” He is thankful for his impenetrable poker face, because as good as he is, he can’t run a company alone and he really needs some experienced administrators by his side.

 

Over in the corner, Kenma can see the interest spark in Kuroo’s eyes. He knows he can’t resist a challenge. Kenma sighs and snaps his hand out to grab Kuroo’s wrist before he can do anything foolish.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” he whispers. “We are not hopping on this sinking ship.”

 

Kuroo shrugs, smiling. “I never asked you to follow me.”

 

“Ha ha,” Kenma deadpans back.

 

Almost a minute passes, and no one makes a move. “Fine,” Kei continues, at last. “It’s really, _truly_ no big loss, if none of you have a _modicum_ of a desire to do things the right way. If none of you have even the _slightest_ capability to be inspired. Half of you fell ass-backwards into this job, anyway. I can find the people I need elsewhere, and at least they won’t be fucking evil.”

 

Tadashi watches Kei. He understands, obviously, that what he is saying isn’t _friendly_. It isn’t _charming_. But it’s…it’s something. Something better, he is sure.

 

This Tsukishima Kei isn’t the Tsukishima Kei whom Tadashi has casually observed for the past few years around the office. This is more like the guy who got caught lying about a date at the airport—unsmiling and intense but somehow much more…likable. Someone without pretense. And he is turning to leave and walk away from him probably forever.

 

 _Oh and also he’s super-hot_ Tadashi’s brain reminds him.

 

“I’ll go with you!” he pipes up.

 

Kei flinches in surprise, then he looks over his shoulder at Tadashi.

 

“Yamaguchi Tadashi,” he says, grinning a little. “Let’s go, then.”

 

Tadashi squeaks. “Um, right now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay,” Tadashi says. “Great.” But gravity is catching up with him and the blood is roaring in his ears and it’s basically all white noise between the fact that _he just quit his job_ and _he just said my name again_ and _I kind of hope he doesn’t hire anyone else._ Tadashi unceremoniously shoves his stuff in a box, unpinning the Saturn V rocket poster from the cubicle wall. He practically trips over his own two feet as he steps away from his desk, suddenly aware of the hundred or so eyes skewering him from every angle imaginable.

 

“Yamaguchi-san.” Kiyoko gives him a _look_.

 

“Shush,” he hisses back.

 

The walk out of the office is the longest and most mortifying of Tadashi’s life. He oscillates between _this is the best decision of my life_ and _this is the worst decision of my life_ so rapidly he thinks he might split in two, but as they enter the elevator, he catches a glimpse of their shadows, long and dark and neatly framed between the doors. They look like a team, that way.

 

“Good night, everyone,” Kei says in his fake-charming voice as the elevator closes. The difference in personality is so pronounced that Tadashi can imagine the way a person might be worn down by pretending for so long.

 

Well, actually, he _can’t_ imagine. He has never been able to pretend.

 

It occurs to Tadashi that this is probably not a healthy personality trait, for either of them.

 

This is the guy who wrote the memo, though. His husband Ichirou had been a writer—not a professional one, but Tadashi knew something about writing, that it was the barest expression of someone’s soul. Even in the students Tadashi tutored back in college—if you looked beyond the bad grammar and the nonsensical punctuation and the unimaginative word choice—you could always find something new and interesting and true about a person there.

 

That’s the kind of thought that Keiji was always telling him got him in trouble: Tadashi is sickeningly, alarmingly romantic.

As soon as they’re on their way down, Kei is back to his normal, uncharming, and frankly intimidating self.

 

“I know this isn’t a great time,” Tadashi asks, “but you’re gonna have medical, right?”

 

Tsukishima looks at him. “Medical. Of course.” He runs a hand over his face. “Don’t worry, Yamaguchi-san. I know it probably seems like you just made a bad decision—like a ridiculous _, what the actual fuck-_ tier decision, but I’ve got it all under control. We still have a couple of clients, and our overhead cost is going to be low, so. Don’t panic.”

 

“Me, panic?” Tadashi says, and it takes a moment for Kei to register it as a joke. “And it’s just Yamaguchi from now on, okay?”

 

The elevator stops on the fifteenth floor, and when the doors open, the realize they’ve been staring at each other. A young couple enters the elevator and stands in the corner next to them, completely absorbed in their own little world.

 

They aren’t talking, but the taller one is moving her hands, never breaking eye contact. Her partner leans up and kisses her, smiling into her lips. Yamaguchi gasps to himself. The elevator dings again and the couple is gone.

 

“Wonder what that was about,” Kei says.

 

“My best friend growing up was hearing-impaired,” Tadashi replies, breathlessly. “She just said _you complete me_.”

 

Kei looks at this man in the elevator next to him, and he feels suddenly self-conscious about his hands still at his sides. He smiles to himself.

 

_You might be just as complicated a piece of work as I am, Yamaguchi Tadashi._

 

***

 

The first thing Tadashi plans to do when he gets home is make sure Yaku’s in bed, sound asleep. The second thing he plans to do is throw up, and maybe hyperventilate a little before step three, which involves admitting everything to his older brother.

 

When he sees the crowd of doctors in his living room, though, his plans fall through.

 

“And all of a sudden the cranial cavity was _flooded_ with blood,” Futakuchi, a neurosurgeon, says, leaning on his legs with his elbows, “which, you know, would usually be fine, except we _had_ to keep it clear with the nurse holding the incision wide open and—”

 

Tadashi lets the screen slam shut behind him. The group startles. “Nice to see everyone. I forgot you were meeting today. Where’s Keiji?”

 

“Kitchen,” Moniwa, a hand surgeon, says, a bit sheepishly.

 

Tadashi enters the kitchen and drops his bag on the table.

 

“Hey,” Akaashi says, in a way that somehow already makes Tadashi feel transparent and guilty.

 

“So,” he begins. “I quit my job today.”

 

***

 

When Tsukishima drops the box of office supplies on his studio floor, he hears the unexpected clink of glass against the side. He pulls out the bottle of wine, examines it with disdain, then searches the kitchen drawer for a bottle opener.

 

His phone had been buzzing the whole drive back and he already knows it’s Akiteru, since he’s pretty much the only person who ever texts him about anything but work. And it’s not like he exactly has co-workers anymore. He has co- _worker_. Very singular.

 

_From: Akiteru  
9:58 PM_

_omg omg kei_

_are you fuckin serious?????!!!_

_i wish i could say im surprised but after that last stunt you pulled nothing could surprise me_

_and i wish i could scold you like a good big brother but im glad you got out of that hellhole on your own terms_

_or like, at least sort of your own terms. saeko said you looked kinda cool when you left. totally fuckin bananas tho_

_oh and whos that accountant you kidnapped???_

_a secret lover?????? did you guys murder someone together and now youre bound by the burden of a grave secret?_

_i cant tell if thats hot and fucked up or just fucked up_

_wait HAHA a GRAVE secret_

_oh and sorry of course that lover thing was a joke. i know thats not how you roll_

_it would be kinda cool if you did tho_

_if youre worried you can always call me. since there is a ninety percent chance you’re thoroughly fucked_

_youve faced worse odds, tho_

_and anyway i know you never respond but good luck. go kick their asses_

 

He types back, _I do too respond. Sometimes._

He takes a big gulp of the wine and grimaces. It’s pretty dry. Gross.

 

He sighs and lies back down on his bed. He’s clearing out the appointments on his calendar app when he notices there is one more text, from a number not in his contacts. But the area code is local, and—again, singular co-worker.

 

 _we can do this!!_ *~ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ~*

 

He texts back, _Don’t worry._

The cheerleader kaomoji embarrasses him a little, but at least it feels genuine, coming from Yamaguchi. If he has to work with someone from SMN, he thinks, it may as well be someone who is actually nice.

 

Then again, he’s probably not gonna let Kei forget about his memo, its insistence on treating people with compassion. Which might be a little hard, considering, well, Hinata and Kageyama. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Maybe the day has been awful, but it is beyond that—beyond words. As he falls asleep, Akiteru’s text burns on the inside of his eyelids: _There is a ninety percent chance you are thoroughly fucked_.

 

***

 

Akaashi takes a moment before he responds. He leans against the sink, rinsing the bowls of chips and candy his colleagues have devoured. Tadashi is always surprised by the junk his brother’s doctor friends are willing to eat.

 

His brother holds the support group every week. Being a surgeon is a stressful job, Akaashi reasons, and it’s important they don’t internalize their patients’ traumas. Tadashi knows it’s in his brother’s nature to take care of the people around him—he has always known it, better than anyone else—but he kind of wishes the surgeons would keep it PG with Yaku wandering around the house. His kid is way too young to have already been desensitized to B-movie gore.

 

“Are you gonna grow up to be like your Uncle Keiji?” Akaashi often asks him, with a satisfied smile. Yaku always shrugs, but never seems too opposed to the idea. After seeing what a group of weirdos doctors really are—not stiff and boring at all like he’d imagined—Tadashi thinks he will try and steer his son in the direction of a slightly more emotionally healthy occupation.

 

When Tadashi admits to quitting his job, Akaashi doesn’t drop the dishes, or freak out, or scream. He simply says in a low voice, “Why?” Which is somehow even scarier.

 

“Um,” Tadashi says.

 

It’s this familiar, self-depreciating-but-not-actually _um_ that makes Keiji throw his hands in the air, flinging suds all over Tadashi’s shirt.

 

“Okay, who violated the Tadashi Code of Ethics this time?”

 

This is not an unfair accusation. Yamaguchi may give off a meek impression, but he has always been, well, emotionally driven. He quit his job scooping ice cream in the summer when the owners told him to cut his long hair. He stopped eating meat after he watched a documentary about a big farm in Hokkaido. And he married Ichirou after only a couple of months because of the awful (but hideously romantic) poetry had written him.

 

The last one was a mistake, of course, but Tadashi could never regret it. He would have never been able to adopt Yaku if he were single, after all.

 

Tadashi sighs. “You know you stick to your guns too, Keiji.”

 

“I know,” he says, voice softening. “It’s how mom and dad raised us.”

 

He pushes Akaashi gently away from the sink and takes his place washing dishes. “They also didn’t raise us to be straight.”

 

Akaashi eyes him for a moment. “Tadashi, tell me this is not about a _boy_.”

 

Tadashi nearly wilts, but he prefers it to keeping secrets. “He wrote this _memo_ , Keiji, this declaration about the nature of the industry and the importance of compassion—I swear, if you’d read what he wrote, you would have left too.”

 

“You quit over a business memo?” Akaashi sighs, pressing his fingertips into the bridge of his nose. “You’re a single parent, Tadashi. You have given up the right to be frivolous.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Will you at least have—”

 

“Medical?” Tadashi interrupts. “Of course.”

 

“Fine,” he says, then adds, “He’d better not be handsome.”

 

Tadashi shoves his brother’s shoulder. “What would you know about handsome, huh?”

 

“Just because I’m not down to fuck doesn’t mean I’m blind.” Akaashi turns off the sink and wipes his hands on Tadashi’s sweater. “Besides, my patients fall in love with me all the time.”

 

Tadashi sighs. He knows Akaashi feels responsible for him; he did even when they were kids, before their parents were gone. Akaashi wouldn’t take no for an answer when Tadashi lost the house when Ichirou died, and he was so good with Yaku.

 

Which reminds him. “Is Yaku asleep?”

 

“Yeah. In the living room.”

 

“Again? Keiji, I told you not to leave him with your gory trauma circle friends!”

 

Akaashi puts his hands up. “Sorry, sorry.” He takes the dish back from Tadashi’s hands and nods as if to say, _you’re excused_. Tadashi rolls his eyes.

 

He scoops up Yaku from the couch, mouthing _good night_ at the doctors, who are absorbed in Michimiya’s weekly Trials of a Cardiac Surgeon series. Once they’re in the hall, his son’s eyes fly open.

 

“Did you lose your job, Dad?” he asks.

 

Shit, was he listening at the door?“Not exactly, Yaku. Dad has a new job. A better job.”

 

“Can I stay in your room tonight?”

 

Tadashi smiles. “Of course. But no TV.”

 

“Can you read to me, then?”

 

Tadashi deposits Yaku on the bed. He clambers up to the pillows and fluffs them methodically as Tadashi changes into his pajamas.

 

“Tomorrow, I promise. Dad's tired tonight. Let’s go to sleep, Yaku.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh such a plot-oriented chapter…tune in next time for some asanoya fluff, a fist fight, and…a kiss??????


	3. the museum's fucking closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kei goes to a business party; Yaku and Asahi tag along. Punches are thrown, faces are kissed, etc.

Almost a week later, when the industry mixer rolls around, Kei wakes up covered in wine. His first thought is _at least it’s not red._

 

He tears all the covers off his bed and throws them in a pile on the floor he has now decided is for laundry. Then he climbs in the shower and washes off all the stickiness under a burning-hot stream he hopes will distract him a little longer from the reality of confronting his co-workers for the first time since he quit. Well, wasfired. Technically.

 

At least now he knows the nice thing about fucking up really, really badly is that it only takes a few mornings to wake up with the knowledge of your mistake already there. It was the remembering all over again that was really killing him.

 

He has convinced Yamaguchi not to come with him to the party. The guy quit his job for Kei, so the least he can do is take the full brunt of the day’s inevitable embarrassment. One of them has to be there, though. He has to talk to Bokuto, like he said on the phone. Maybe once they draw up a contract, Kei can leave the mixer with some of his dignity restored.

 

Kei wants to stay under the scorching water until he’s woozy. Maybe he’ll get lucky and hit his head. Then again, maybe his apartment isn’t the _best_ place to die, because god knows how long it would take someone to find him. He shuts off the water with considerable reluctance.

 

Once he’s dressed, he decides he should probably eat breakfast. If he doesn’t force some food down he really _will_ fall and hit his head and die alone in his apartment. And wouldn’t the news eat _that_ up—lonely sports agent suffers an undignified death in his fancy twenty-fourth floor studio.

 

His phone buzzes. It’s Yamaguchi again, asking if he needs a ride to the hotel. Kei considers the ominous sky and responds _yes_.

 

When Yamaguchi pulls up in a beat-up navy sedan, Kei realizes he’s not alone in the car.

 

“Yaku, you remember Tsukishima-san,” Tadashi says. Yaku responds by leaning out of his booster seat and latching onto Kei’s arm, as if to say, _yes, of course, the human jungle gym._

“And this is our babysitter, Azumane Asahi,” Tadashi says, gesturing to the other man in the car. The man looks a little cramped in the back seat, although likely not any more cramped than Kei himself. His hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and his presence is even less intimidating than Yamaguchi’s.

 

“Nice to meet you, Tsukishima-san,” Asahi says.

 

“Likewise.” _Nice little family_ , he guesses. He peers at Yaku from the corner of his eye as Tadashi begins to drive, wondering if the little guy ever talks—not that Kei’s complaining.

 

“Where are you headed today, Yaku?” Kei asks, testing the waters.

 

“Pool,” he replies. “Asahi-san is gonna teach me how to swim.”

 

“Is that so?” Kei says. He’s not sure how to continue the conversation, when Yaku pipes up again.

 

“Did you know Mount Vesuvius erupted for 18 hours in 79 AD?”

 

Kei peers over his shoulder. “Did you know the ash from the explosion boiled people’s brains?”

 

“Did you know in the future the sun is gonna get big and swallow us?”

 

“Did you know the Hadrosaurus had over a thousand teeth?”

 

“Did you know my teacher got married last week?”

 

“Well, I can’t top that,” Kei says to Tadashi, whom he realizes is shaking with laughter behind his hand. Kei notices the way his sleeves are a little too long, how they cover his palms.

 

“Why don’t you bring him along today?” Kei asks Asahi impulsively. He wants to do something nice for them, considering he may have single-handedly annihilated the kid’s college fund a week before.

 

 _He’s smart, though,_ Kei finds himself thinking. _He could get a scholarship_.

 

“To like—a business thing?” Asahi asks, uncertain.

 

“They always have kids’ rooms at these things. The hotel has a pool, so he can still swim. And there will be pizza and soda and other babysitters with their kids, too.” He glances at Tadashi. “Is he allowed to have ice cream?”

 

Tadashi holds a finger to his lips, mock-thoughtful. “Hmm, Yaku. Are you allowed to have ice cream?”

 

“Only on Saturdays.”

 

“It’s Saturday.”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Asahi, take my IC Card for Yaku just in case,” Tadashi says, motioning toward his bag. His eyes are glued to the road, and they prickle with tears. Tsukishima Kei is a lot of things, many of which he does not yet understand. But he is also nice to his kid. It hits him hard.

 

“Are you okay, Dad?” Yaku asks, nearly blowing his cover.

 

“I’m just happy you’re gonna have a fun time today,” Tadashi says.

 

Yaku turns to Kei, expectant. “Is there gonna be a ball pit?”

 

Kei looks at the kid seriously for a moment. “Yes, Yaku. There is going to be a ball pit.”

 

***

 

Kei half-expects the bouncer not to let him anywhere near the hotel ballroom, but a) he’s still technically an agent— _Bokuto Koutarou’s_ agent at that, and b) he doubts anyone would have remembered to kick him off the guest list between this week and the last.

 

As soon as he arrives, Hinata waves him over to a snack table, where Kageyama is glaring at a plate of assorted crackers.

 

“Tsukishima! We just got here, too. Noya already left for the kids’ party with Lev.”

 

“Hinata. Kageyama. Good to see you.” Kei reaches out a hand, which Hinata examines for a moment, then slaps. Kageyama just nods.

 

“To be honest, their party looks a lot more fun than ours,” Hinata says. “But we’re not here to party, are we? We’re here to get onto the national team! Or, well, _you’re_ here to do that for us.”

 

Kei examines Hinata’s crooked tie. “Kageyama, could you please teach your husband how to do his tie?”

 

“Huh?” Kageyama asks, turning to Kei with a mouthful of crackers. His tie is just as off-kilter as Hinata’s, and he sighs.

 

“Never mind,” Tsukishima says, glancing around quickly, then stepping forward and adjusting both of their ties. Kageyama ineffectually slaps him away, which makes Hinata laugh. Kageyama looks between the two of them, as if he can’t decide whom to stare daggers at first.

 

Kei steps back. “You two can just enjoy the party for now. If you see any of the big players from the national team—Sawamura Daichi, for one—try to strike up a _normal_ conversation. Do you know what he looks like? Average height? Dark hair? On the serious side?”

 

Hinata makes a face. “You just described every other dude here.”

 

“Of course we know what Sawamura Daichi looks like,” Kageyama says.

 

“Good,” Kei says.

 

Boisterous laughter rings out from the direction of the big, dramatic ballroom doors. He follows the clamor with his eyes.

 

Bokuto, volleyball’s number one Olympic hopeful, has arrived. And it shows. He’s just barely entered the party and flashbulbs are already going off. Kei resolves to make his move, to get things settled with Bokuto before Bokuto gets swept up into being the Life of the Party, which Kei knows he loves nearly as much as he loves spiking.

 

“Sorry, I’ll get back to you guys in a bit,” Kei says to Hinata and Kageyama. He bows his head a little and makes for the crowd.

 

“That was fast,” Kageyama says. Hinata thumps him in the shoulder.

 

“You’re the one who wanted to go with him.”

 

“It’s hardly a competition, having a less shitty personality than Oikawa.”

 

Hinata hums, watching Kei’s back disappear into the crowd. “There’s definitely a difference between those guys, though, right?”

 

***

 

Nishinoya Yuu does not believe in love at first sight.

 

He does, however, believe in _extremely, unfairly hot people you need to make a move on fast before anyone else can_ …at first sight.

 

But Nishinoya Yuu is a professional, and this children’s consolation party is his place of business. So even when Tall, Awkward, and Handsome in the corner over there enters only a few moments after him, he swears to obey the Five-Minute Rule. The Five-Minute Rule states he has to wait five minutes before hitting on someone while taking care of Lev, in case the other person’s hotness wears off. Noya invented this rule out of necessity; he has found there are a lot of beautiful people in the world.

 

Now where is Lev?

 

Noya loves looking after Lev. Lev is a bundle of joy. He is nearly twice as tall and three times as energetic as the average five-year-old, and he is constantly getting into trouble, which is something to which Noya can relate.

 

Plus Lev is really, really distractible. This is useful, because sometimes Noya needs Lev to go cause a problem for some hot person so Noya can intervene, apologize, and get their number. Noya can always get Lev to do exactly what he wants, which is what makes him such a good babysitter.

 

It occurs to Noya that manipulating a five-year-old really isn’t all that hard, but whatever—this kid has a seventy percent success rate in getting him dates. Es _pec_ ially when Noya says, “Lev? This crazy kid? No, he’s not mine, but never a dull moment looking after him, you know?” This lets the other person know that a) no, he doesn’t have kids, but b) he is really good with them. Which is considered a very appealing quality in contemporary Japan.

 

Lev, predictably, is off terrorizing some poor twins with his kaiju act, stomping on their elaborately arranged tea party and making strangled dinosaur sounds that would be adorable if the twins’ babysitter weren’t glaring a hole through his head. Noya flashes the babysitter a thumbs-up and removes Lev from the tragedy. This is harder than he would like to admit, since he is actually not _enormously_ taller than his bosses’ five-year-old kid.

 

“Did you win?” Noya asks. Lev is still kicking. Noya only has him a foot above the ground.

 

“Listen, there’s another game I have for you. You wanna play?” Noya asks, releasing him. Lev nods. “It involves _that_ kid over there—the shorty at the pizza table—on the count of _three_ , I want you to—”

 

But Noya doesn’t even need to finish making up instructions, because as soon as he gestures at the hot guy’s kid, Lev is bounding after him. Noya sighs. Shorty is a goner.

 

After a scuffle, Lev picks up the smaller kid by his armpits and walks him back over to Noya. “Can I keep him?”

 

Noya tries to keep a straight face. “He’s not a cat, Lev.”

 

“He’s _sooo_ cute and cuddly though—”

 

“Am _not_ ,” Yaku says, kicking back hard enough into Lev’s stomach that he drops him to the playroom floor. Noya puts his hands up, feigning exasperation and apology.

 

“Are too,” says Lev. “I’m gonna call you Kitty.”

 

“Go away.”

 

“No need for claws, Mr. Kitty!” snaps Lev, pouncing forward again, only to be swept up this time by Mr. Hot Guy himself.

 

Noya smiles at Mr. Hot Guy and removes Lev from his grasp, letting the brush of his arms linger. He puts his kid down and places his hands on his shoulders to keep him from running away, while Shorty stands cautiously behind Mr. Hot Guy’s legs.

 

“Asahi-san, make him leave,” the other boy says, like he’s asking for help tying his shoes or reaching a shelf.

 

“Why don’t you introduce yourself to him instead, huh, Yaku?” Mr. Hot Guy Asahi-san says. Yaku doesn’t seem pleased about this, but he complies, stepping out from his hiding place.

 

“Sorry about Lev,” Noya says. “He’s a handful.”

 

Asahi looks surprised that Noya is still talking to him. The shorter man has barely broken eye contact since he came over to this side of the room. Noya is just double-checking, though, that Mr. Hot Guy is as ridiculously hot as he first suspected. He studies the lines of his face, the warmth of his eyes, the crinkle between his brows, the unsure way his lips are parted, like he’s about to say something but is afraid he might scare Noya off.

 

Yup, the guy is just as drop-dead gorgeous as he initially suspected.

 

Asahi breaks the silence. “I can’t say I relate—Yaku’s the easiest kid I’ve ever worked with, in some ways.” He watches Yaku as he cautiously approaches Lev. “Is it possible to have _too_ much common sense?”

 

“Absolutely,” Noya says with so much conviction that Asahi laughs in surprise.

 

Yaku runs back over and tugs at Asahi’s leg, looking up with an expression that says _can I be done with this?_

 

“Go play with your new friend,” Asahi says gently. “It’s good to make friends.”

 

Noya breathes an internal sigh of relief as Yaku shrugs and follows Lev to the ball pit.

 

“Lev could use a friend like your little guy,” Noya says. “He’s pretty hyperactive.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Asahi says. “Yaku could use a _friend_.” Noya raises an eyebrow at this. “Yaku’s kind of had a hard time of things. He can seem a little serious, but he’s a really good kid.”

 

“It’s really impressive the way you can ask your kid to do something and he’ll _do_ it. Lev’s like me—he needs to be tricked into doing something he doesn’t wanna do. You’re good at your job, Asahi-san,” Noya says honestly.

 

“Not particularly, I don’t think,” Asahi says, rubbing the back of his neck. A blush creeps up his tan skin, and Noya practically whines at how unfair it is that someone so tall could also be so cute.

 

“Are too,” Noya teases.

 

“Are not,” Asahi says, still blushing, then looking a little betrayed. “Hey.”

 

“That’s what happens when you spend all day with kids, Asahi-san.” Noya grins. “You start talking like one.”

 

“Oh yeah? Well—you’re…good at your job, too.”

 

Noya’s smile drops away. “That was a really weak comeback, Asahi-san.”

 

Asahi wilts under Noya’s piercing attention. Noya decides to relent.

 

“So is he an athlete’s kid? Or an agent’s?” he asks.

 

“Yaku? Neither, really. He’s more like my boss’s kid brought he on behalf of _his_ boss, I guess.”

 

“Sounds complicated.”

 

“I get the feeling it is.”

 

Noya smiles up at him. He can _feel_ how close he is to this guy’s number—he can practically see it tattooed on his forehead.

 

Asahi feels like he’s being pushed around by the other man’s silence. He weighs his options; surely talking more is better than blushing harder. “We weren’t even planning on coming here today. We were gonna go swimming at the local gym. I was going to show Yaku freestyle. Or at least how not to drown.”

 

“Are you a swim teacher?” Noya asks. “Lev could use some help, too. He’s only five and he’s already gangly as hell.”

 

“That kid is _five?_ ” Asahi says, looking dubious. “And—yeah, actually, I used to be a lifeguard and teach the guppy-level classes, but…the kids were kind of scared of me.”

 

Noya thinks it is adorable that someone would be scared of Asahi, but maybe that’s how someone so hot still doesn’t have a ring on his finger.

 

“There’s a pool on the first floor, you know.”

 

***

 

Kei steels himself as he pushes through the crowd and draws up next to Bokuto, who is _glowing_ from all the attention. Or maybe it’s just the moody lighting.

 

“Bokuto-san, good to see you,” Kei says.

 

“It’s Kou _ta_ rou, Kei!” Bokuto says. He turns to the crowd around them, smile wide, says, “And that’s to _Kei_ only. Unless one of _you_ wants to offer me a better deal. The rest of you can keep it up with the Bokuto-san this and Bokuto-san that!”

 

The other agents laugh, and Kei feels secure, for a moment. _This is all gonna work_ , he thinks. _I’m gonna do this. A few good clients, low overhead, only one salary to pay._

Kei notices Oikawa in the crowd and, feeling bold, lets his friendly agent smile drop into the most insufferable smirk he can muster. Oikawa sticks up his nose and turns away, making for the elevator. For a moment he feels like he’s won.

 

“Let me grab us some beers,” Bokuto says to Kei, slapping him on the back. He regards the other agents and press people with a wink— _this isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of me_.

 

“Sounds great, Bokuto,” he replies, even though he has sworn off drinking for the third time this month, given that his morning began with a puddle of wine.

Bokuto returns with not two, but _six_ beers, on a tray he must have sweet-talked out of the bartender. Or maybe sweet-talk isn’t the right word for Bokuto, Kei thinks. Bokuto isn’t really the charming type—more the loud, ecstatic, overwhelming type. He’s impossible to ignore. And Kei is going to be his agent, which means _he’ll_ impossible to ignore, once they get the paperwork sorted.

 

Even though business functions are abhorrent, Kei has always been a little wary of drinking at them. It’s unsightly to get drunk in front of co-workers, and he prefers to keep his wits about him when he’s seen clients get poached at mixers in the past. But this is Kei 2.0, the one who wrote the infamous memo. Now of all times he has to lean into it.

 

He gets the feeling he has to be Bokuto’s friend, if he wants to be a good agent to him. Surely Kei can approximate friendship, if he tries.

 

Besides, there’s something exciting about being the black sheep of the mixer. When you hate someone, he decides, it’s way better to competewith them than it is to be on their team. He is no longer under any obligation to act all pally with his co-workers.

 

“So,” he says to Bokuto. “Let’s talk strategy. Let’s make you Japan’s ace.”

 

 “You’re the greatest, Kei!” Bokuto hollers. “Hit me.”

 

Kei explains his process when it comes to national teams—it’s a little different from leagues that only play within Japan, especially with the limited number of spots and, typically, the team captain’s increased deciding power. Bokuto nods along, listening.

 

“I got you onto the Sakai Blazers this way,” Kei says. “There are some former Blazers on the second string of nationals now. Those guys know how strong you are.”

 

“The strongest,” Bokuto says, smiling. “How long until this works out, do you figure? I get the feeling that some of the other agents here are waiting to pounce.”

 

“I’ll get you a meeting as soon as possible.” Kei fidgets with his hands; if even Bokuto’s bringing it up, then he should be wary of foul play. “Look, it doesn’t matter to me whether you stick with SMN or with me. I just want you to be able to play, Bokuto. But if you want a deal with the national team, then you’re better off sticking with me. I’ve gotten plenty of guys on there in the past.”

 

Of course, this was back when rumor wasn’t going around that Tsukishima Kei had flipped his lid. He has not yet considered how this new reputation might affect his business relationships. Still, this gets Bokuto predictably amped up, and he leaps up to drag a few basketball players onto the dance floor after him.

 

Kei takes out his phone.

 

To: Yamaguchi Tadashi

_We’re definitely getting medical._

 

From: Yamaguchi Tadashi

_so happy for you!!!!_

To: Yamaguchi Tadashi

_Happy for us._

 

Yamaguchi sends him another overwhelming string of kaomoji, and wonders how someone like him managed to raise such a quiet, serious kid. Even after spending the last week together, he still can’t figure it out.

 

Kei smiles. It feels weird—kind of different. _Oh_ , he realizes. _This is what being_ actually _happy feels like._

 

Bokuto is already out of sight—likely back up in his room—so Kei decides to grab another drink and find his other volleyball weirdos. Hinata and Kageyama have settled at an otherwise empty table near the snack table, constructing a tower out of crackers. Kageyama glares at him.

 

“Oh, now you want to be friends?”

 

***

 

It’s obvious to Asahi that the reason Noya can’t teach Lev any self-control is because he possesses none himself. Within thirty seconds of entering the pool complex, he’s broken the first two rules painted on the wall in child-friendly (but serious) hiragana: NO RUNNING and NO CANNONBALLS.

 

Lev is a pretty good swimmer. Asahi figures this isn’t surprising—he’s not sure whether he’s related to either of his dads, but if he has athletic genes from even one side it’s obviously more than sufficient. Yaku is still more comfortable with a doggy paddle, not quite ready to learn other strokes, but at least nobody is drowning.

 

Well, nobody except Noya.

 

Despite his earlier cannonball, Noya seems never to have taken a swim class in his life. He can barely float without folding in on himself when Asahi guides the length of his spine to the surface. “Just keep your arms out,” Asahi says gently. “And don’t panic.”

 

Noya laughs pretty hard at this, coming from Asahi, and swallows a lungful of water in the process.

 

Asahi isn’t sure how much time they spend in the pool, but before he knows it his hands are hopelessly wrinkled and he forgets what it’s like not to breathe chlorine. He keeps an eye on Yaku and Lev in the shallow end of the water; Noya has reminded Lev that in places where he can stand, Yaku will _drown_ , so no funny business, but Asahi is still wary.

 

Asahi decides the safest course of action for Noya is probably breast stroke; it’s hard to sink in that position. The other people at the pool side-eye the two of them—one burly grown man teaching a much tinier one how to swim—but he doesn’t actually feel all that awkward having the strangers look at him. This is his element, after all. He loved being a swim teacher while it lasted.

 

They move to the shallow end of the pool. Noya slices his fingertips through the air, trying to copy the motion of Asahi’s. His hands are positioned wrong. “Like this,” Asahi says gently, trying to mold them into the right shape.

 

“Like this?”

 

“Not quite—here, like this—”

 

“Like this?” Noya grabs either side of Asahi’s face and squeezes, so he looks like a guppy.

 

“No, it’s—hey, you’re hustling me!” Asahi splashes at Noya, feeling betrayed as Noya slips into a perfect backstroke. “But it’s been hours!”

 

“I play the long game, Asahi-san,” Noya says, splashing back. He starts paddling into the deep end. Asahi is about to grab him when his phone starts ringing on a pool chair nearby. He scrambles out to reach it.

 

“Tsukishima-san? Something happened? Are you okay? Sure, I’ll—” Asahi winces at Noya apologetically, mouthing, _We gotta go._ “Sure, we’re at the pool—be down in a minute.”

 

Asahi puts away his phone and starts toweling off. Noya watches from the edge of the water. “Noya-san,” he says. “Are you going to ask me out?”

 

Noya smiles. “Of course.”

 

“I thought so,” he sighs. “You shouldn’t.”

 

Noya tilts his head. What’s wrong? Has he been coming on too strong? He wishes he knew.

 

So he asks, “What’s wrong? Have I been coming on too strong?”

 

“Maybe,” Asahi says. He waves his hands around. “Not that I mind it. I don’t. I…opposite of mind it.”

 

Noya slaps his forehead. “You’re already dating someone.”

 

Asahi shakes his head. “That’s not it. I just want to schedule more playdates for Yaku with Lev. If we go on a few dates, and call things off…well, I think it’s more important Yaku finds a friend right now.”

 

Noya considers this, then nods. “Alright, Asahi-san.”

 

“Can we set up a playdate sometime soon? Maybe next week?”

 

“Sure,” Noya says. He smiles. “I’ll call you.”

 

Asahi nods, collects Yaku and his sports bag, and leaves.

 

“Where are they going?” Lev asks.

 

“Home,” Noya says. “But we’ll see them again soon.” He watches Asahi disappear down the hall through the glass doors, Yaku on his back. Hm. A little disappointing, maybe, but not entirely discouraging.

 

***

 

Twenty minutes earlier, when the party has started winding down, Kei excuses himself from the volleyball weirdo’s edible tower-building competition. He has managed to kill a few hours watching them bicker and topple cubes of cheese. They’re actually not half bad at it. They’re stupid as hell, sure, but even in a competition as inconsequential as this, their athlete concentration shines through. He adds this to his mental checklist of things to bring up to Captain Sawamura in negotiation—probably on the tail end of the Bokuto meeting he’s going to set up.

 

He should probably check in with Bokuto before he goes, in any case. It’s almost nightfall, and if Yaku’s been eating ice cream this whole time, he’s bound to have a stomachache. He doesn’t want Yamaguchi thinking he’s irresponsible with his kid.

 

Kei rides the elevator to the upper floors and finds the room Bokuto’s staying in. It’s not difficult to locate—the door is open, and he can hear plenty of upbeat chatter floating down the corridor.

 

Bokuto freezes when he sees Kei. He’s crowded around a coffee table in the middle of the suite with some other guys in suits, including Oikawa Tooru. Kei maintains his cool exterior, but the cold sweat broken out on his skin is probably a giveaway.

 

“Bokuto-san,” Kei says.

 

“Kei-chan,” Oikawa says.

 

Kei glares at him, raising a hand: _I wasn’t talking to you_. “What’s going on here?”

 

Bokuto sits up straight, suddenly polite, hands balled in his lap. “I just want to _play_ , Tsukishima,” he explains.

 

Kei snaps his head at Oikawa. “What did you do?”

 

Oikawa shrugs. “I don’t know what you were up to this past week,” he says, “but it certainly wasn’t talking to Sawamura Daichi or Coach Ukai. I guess you must be pretty busy setting up the new business.”

 

Oikawa is dead on—he _has_ been slogging through a bunch of forms and licenses with Yamaguchi. Even though they both still have their various certifications, freelance is a little different, plus they’ve needed to set up the website, and work out Yamaguchi’s contract—

 

 _Dammit_ , he thinks. How did this not occur to him, that the rest of the world wasn’t on pause while he was getting his shit together?

 

“It’d be silly to waste Ukai-san’s time with another negotiation for Bokuto, wouldn’t it?” Oikawa asks. “I’m sure he doesn’t need to hear the same negotiation tactics twice.”

 

“Obviously,” Kei snaps. He is pretty sure he’s dead. He really did slip in the shower this morning; he died and now he’s dead and this living nightmare is his own personal hell.

 

He takes a deep breath, trying to remember his memo. _No more fake attitude, no more ego, no more acting like it’s okay to send a kid’s concussed dad back onto the field for the sake of his own commission._

 

The thing is, though, that Tsukishima really, really needed Bokuto, and not just for his own sake.

 

Why did he bother reinventing the rules if no one was going to follow them, again?

 

“I’m sorry, Tsukishima,” Bokuto says, voice low. Kei recognizes the dramatic shift in his mood; there will be no reasoning with him now. “It’s just—Oikawa-san already set up the deal for me. I’m going to be Japan’s ace. How could I say no to that?”

 

Kei stares at him hard. “It would be stupid to say no.”

 

“I’m glad we’re all on the same page,” Oikawa says, clapping his hands together. Kei clamps down on his tongue so hard he tastes copper.

 

Kei waits in the hall after the conversation. He feels kind of silly, ten minutes later, hovering awkwardly by the elevator. But when Oikawa finally rounds the corner, he’s ready for him.

 

“Bokuto’s a handful,” Kei starts. He shifts against the wall, arms crossed, hoping that his pose comes across as relaxed and not weak-kneed.

 

Oikawa smiles. “How do you mean?”

 

“You probably haven’t realized it yet,” Kei continues, “but that guy is kind of a mess, emotionally. And he’s not going to perform well without the right support, so think carefully before you peddle any more vapid encouragement his way.”

 

“Are you giving me advice, Kei-chan?” asks Oikawa.

 

“Not at all,” he says. “I’m threatening you.”

 

Oikawa makes a face. “I really did give your memo some thought, Kei-chan,” he says. “Everything you wrote about respecting our clients. Really not as Hallmark as it could have strayed, all things considered. But it’s awfully sad you couldn’t see your outburst for what it was.”

 

Kei rolls his eyes. “Please, you want to talk to me about self-awareness?”

 

Oikawa settles his hands on his hips. “You think you’re the only agent who’s ever thought about this? That the money, the egos, the disregard for the safety of our athletes—you think you’re the only one who’s ever found these things a little sickening?” He sighs.

 

“That’s what we like to call _burnout_ , Kei-chan. Every other person who’s ever burned out of the industry has had thoughts like this. Has used them as excuses, when really they just weren’t built to handle the stress.” Oikawa pauses thoughtfully. “But you would know exactly what I’m talking about, wouldn’t you?”

 

Kei tenses. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Please. Every agent in the industry knows who Tsukishima Akiteru is. Everyone remembers how he pulled his guy out of the game when he was _fine_ —how he threw a huge fit. How he cost their team the season. I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen it all on camera. Your brother is the cautionary tale.”

 

“Don’t talk to me about him.” Kei’s fingers curl into fists.

 

“Who would have thought Kei-chan would have turned out to be the big softy this whole time?” Oikawa says, eyes flickering to his hands. “But I guess that’s just the Tsukishima family for you.”

 

Kei laughs. “And here I thought you were just obnoxious.”

 

Oikawa crosses his arms. “Please, like you don’t have a cruel streak. Tell me, how’s that accountant you kidnapped doing? He has to know he made a bad move by now—or has the Stockholm Syndrome set in? Does he know what an unpleasant person you’ve always been, or is he following you around _completely_ blind?”

 

The next thing Kei knows Oikawa Tooru is half-slumped against a wall, glaring up at him in disbelief, blood dripping from his nose. Kei’s fist is still raised by his side.

 

“Oh, hell no,” Oikawa says. He swings.

 

Oikawa Tooru is a much better punch than Kei.

 

He nails a good one just below Kei’s left eye. He feels the skin split on his cheek and the slick sensation of blood running down his face, and he is vaguely grateful, in some distant corner of his brain, that Oikawa didn’t break his glasses.

 

Kei is still muttering curses to himself when Oikawa straightens, removes a packet of tissues from his bag, and holds one up to his bloody nose. “Of course we’ll pretend this never happened,” Oikawa says, passing off the tissues to Kei.

 

“Of course.” Their respective reputations are at stake, more serious than the mutual desire to expose the other as downright awful.

 

“Lucky for you,” Oikawa says, gesturing at Kei’s much worse-off face. He steps onto the elevator, headed back into the heart of the mixer, where people have long since finished talking business and have begun to enjoy themselves.

 

Kei’s cue to leave, anyway.

 

He’s not sure yet what he’ll say to Azumane-san or Yaku, but he has the feeling that the both of them might be too polite to ask. He dials the babysitter on his phone.

 

***

 

They take a cab back from the station—Kei’s treat—since he’s hoping he can escape without Yamaguchi seeing his face. Now _that_ would be reassuring, wouldn’t it—his new, now unde _ni_ ably unstable boss takes his kid to a party and gets in a drunken fight?

 

Plus he’s pretty sure the black eye is not a good look for him. Even Hinata and Kageyama had been stunned into uneasy silence when he said goodbye.

When they arrive at Yamaguchi’s, Yaku waves goodbye to Kei from the front steps. He mirrors it half-heartedly, sinking lower in the passenger’s seat. The cab driver has paused to check something under the hood, muttering, so Kei is unable to escape by the time another man answers the door to Yamaguchi’s house—and it makes him uncharacteristically antsy, because even though Yamaguchi has called himself a single parent Kei shouldn’t have taken that to mean _single_ entirely. The unfamiliar man eyes the cab. He says something to Asahi, who nods and sends Yaku inside.

 

Asahi turns back to the cab, smiling apologetically, and motions Kei to come in. He makes a strangled face, but Asahi just motions more insistently. Kei leaves a bill in the car and makes his way to the door.

 

The man beside Asahi is—objectively speaking—good-looking, with intense, dark eyes and excellent posture. Even though Kei is taller, he feels himself straightening up self-consciously. Asahi, meanwhile, looks like the tension is going to give him a heart attack.

 

After what feels like an eternity, he says, “Tsukishima Kei. Nice to meet you.”

 

“Good evening, Tsukishima-san. I’m Akaashi, Tadashi’s disapproving brother.”

 

Okay. Clearly he and this guy are going to have some _issues_ , but at least brother he can work with better than boyfriend. “Nice to meet you, Akaashi-san. Is—”

 

“Tsukki! You’re here!” Tadashi bounds through the swinging doors to the kitchen, too loud for this late at night. This is the first time Kei has seen him in casual clothes, and it’s pretty endearing—a t-shirt for a band no one has listened to since middle school, hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. Tadashi closes the front door. “And you met Keiji.” He gives his brother a long, hard look. Akaashi raises his arms— _okay, I get it_ —and leaves.

 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

 

“Some disinfectant, maybe,” Kei mumbles, and Tadashi’s hands fly to his mouth.

 

“ _There’s_ a story, I bet,” he exclaims. Kei glares at him, so he follows up, “Sorry.”

 

Tsukishima waves it off, adjusting his glasses to give him some time to think before he opens his mouth again. “Yaku was completely safe the whole time, I promise. He and Azumane-san were at the hotel pool. This,” he says, gesturing at his entire self, “was just, well. Stupidity.”

 

Yamaguchi looks about ready to burst out laughing.

 

“But it’s going to be okay, I promise,” he says, and Yamaguchi _does_ laugh at him.

 

“Okay, okay,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ll get the disinfectant. I just heated up some leftovers, too, so. I hope you like Mexican.”

 

“Sounds great,” Kei says flatly. As Tadashi leaves he settles on the couch, exhausted, but too nervous in his only employee’s house to relax. He closes his eyes and opens them a few times, not sure which feels less awkward, and when he opens his eyes for the third time Yaku is there.

 

“Your face is messed up, Tsukishima-san.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Kei says. “Well, you’re short.”

 

“I’m only five,” he says, as in _of course I’m short_.

 

Yaku climbs onto the couch and grabs the TV remote. He wonders if Yaku could possibly know he’s drunk. Now that would be mortifying; he doesn’t need to disappoint anyone else tonight.

 

“Tsukishima-san, did you know that penguins can hold their breath for eighteen minutes?”

 

Kei glances at him. “You wanna play this game again?”

 

Yaku shrugs. “Do you like books, Tsukishima-san?”

 

“Of course I like books. Do you like books?”

 

Yaku nods. “Do you like the zoo?”

 

“Museums are better. Do you like space?”

 

“My dad likes space. Do you like monkeys?”

 

“No. Do you like dinosaurs?”

 

“Yes. Do you like trains?”

 

Kei smiles. “I used to. Do you wanna go see dinosaurs at the museum?”

 

“Alright. Do you like cereal?”

 

“It’s fine. Let’s go to the museum with your dad.”

 

“I’ll go get him.”

 

“I didn’t mean now, Yaku. The museum’s closed.” He snorts. “It’s fucking closed, Yaku.”

 

“You said the f-word,” Yaku says.

 

“I did,” Kei admits.

 

“I won’t tell.”

 

“I appreciate that.”

 

Yaku shrugs again and turns on the TV.

 

***

 

In the kitchen, Keiji pulls a plate of leftover nachos from the microwave. Tadashi is pouring salsa into a dish and humming a song he’s forgotten the lyrics to.

 

“You could at least pretend you’re freaked out about the fact that your boss is the kind of person who gets into physical fights,” Keiji says.

 

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” Tadashi replies.

 

“It’s never not going to scare me how willing you are to see the good in strangers, Tadashi.” Keiji’s sigh is heavy. Tadashi recognizes he probably had a rough day at the hospital. He walks over to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Keiji, at the same time, turns around with the plate of nachos in his hands, and plants it straight onto Tadashi’s shirt.

 

They stand still for a moment, nachos pressed into Tadashi’s stomach, trying not to laugh. Carefully, they negotiate the plate back onto the counter, afraid to wake up Yaku, whom Tadashi sent to bed with a hug and a look that said _I mean it_.

 

The nacho shirt breaks the tension in the kitchen. “Jeez,” Tadashi says, trying not to drop bits of cheese on the linoleum. Keiji follows him into the laundry room and searches for a new top while Yamaguchi rinses the shirt out in the industrial sink.

 

“Which shirt do you want?” Keiji asks him over the running faucet. Yamaguchi sighs thoughtfully.

 

“Well, I could change into my pajama top. Since I’m going to bed soon.”

 

Keiji claps his hands. “Yes. Good. Pajamas.”

 

“Or.”

 

“ _Or_ ,” Akaashi sighs.

 

“Or I could wear that green sweater,” Yamaguchi says, eyes dancing.

 

“That sweater is _obscene_ ,” Akaashi snaps. He fishes it out of the basket anyway and flings it in Tadashi’s face. “But it’s worked before.”

 

Tadashi grins. “You’re the best.”

 

***

 

Back in the living room, Tsukishima watches Yaku watching cartoons. The kid is smiling but not laughing, and his eyes are intent, like he’s studying it. Every once in a while he turns to Kei to explain a joke, to which Kei replies, “Thanks. Grown-ups are too stupid to understand cartoons, after all.”

 

There’s laughter from the kitchen. Yaku gets up, turns off the TV, and says, “I’m going to bed.”

 

“I won’t tell your dad,” Kei says as Yaku pads back down the hall.

 

Yamaguchi returns through the swinging kitchen doors with a tray of nachos, medical supplies, a bright smile, and a tight green sweater that, um—well, Kei may Hate Feelings with a capital H-F, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _have_ them. Yamaguchi is balancing two beers tucked under his elbow, too. Kei gets up to help him, grabbing the tray. Yamaguchi opens the beers on the metal edge of the coffee table with a conspiratorial wink.

 

“Keiji hates when I do that,” he says. Kei nods, feeling a little dehydrated. He really should have paced himself at the party, but _not_ drinking the beer would be rude. Yamaguchi raises his bottle and they clink them together.

 

“Thanks,” Kei says, unsure where to go next. He’s not great at forcing conversation in the first place, but it’s even worse when he can’t trust his syllables to come out in order. Luckily Yamaguchi only needs the briefest of uncomfortable pauses before he starts up a story about a patient his brother had in the hospital today, apparently happy to fill the silence.

 

Kei stares at Yamaguchi while he talks, probably in that embarrassing too-drunk-to-focus way. Even though he tries his hardest to pay attention, he finds himself listening to the other man’s voice rather than his words: the dramatic way it shifts when he’s excited, the way his face scrunches up and his hands fly around when he’s trying to make a point. Kei can hear himself laughing, even though the words themselves seem to be bouncing off of his eardrums before they can reach his brain.

 

“…and that’s how Asahi nearly got us banned from the zoo.”

 

“Does Yaku like museums?” Kei asks suddenly.

 

Yamaguchi eyes him curiously. “I’ve only taken him to the planetarium, but he was probably too little to remember. Why?” he asks, with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

 

“I bet he would like the dinosaurs.” Kei stands up, suddenly, and he feels the world tilt a little dangerously, but powers through. “We should set up a museum discount for employees. I always wanted to do that at SMN.”

 

Yamaguchi laughs again and Kei folds his arms, realizing that his only employee has laughed at pretty much every single thing he’s said the whole night.

 

But he still needs to come clean about Bokuto. He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, trying to exude seriousness.

 

“Yamaguchi,” he says. It’s easier without eye contact.

 

“Yes?” Yamaguchi says. No good—Kei can still hear the smile in his voice.

 

“I was serious when I told you not to worry,” he said.

 

“I’m not worried,” Yamaguchi says.

 

“You _should_ be,” Kei says, exasperated. How much easier this would be if Yamaguchi would distrust him just a little. “I lost Bokuto today. I’m sorry. He got poached.”

 

Yamaguchi exhales slowly. “Okay, _maybe_ I can find it in my heart to worry a little.”

 

“But I won’t let you be worried for long,” Kei snaps. “I’m going to do this the right way. And I know you are, too. Because you read my memo. And we’re not gonna let our clients get into trouble anymore, and we’re not gonna let them kill themselves over a game—and—we just need to tell ourselves that our integrity is gonna pay off.”

 

“It will,” Yamaguchi says. It makes Kei feel vulnerable, but it’s better than getting laughed at again.

 

He walks over, picks up a stoker by the fireplace and swings it around, feeling the weight of it in his hands, careful not to whack an antique vase sitting by the window. “It’s a good thing, really,” he continues, “that only Hinata and Kageyama are left. Because they’re going to take work. You probably already know this, but they’re infamous in the volleyball world. They’re going to need my undivided attention. But two clients instead of seventy? I can do it with my hands tied behind my back.”

 

Tsukishima is aware he’s rambling; he can see Yamaguchi’s jaw drop in his peripheral vision. “I’m good at this. I want you to be worried, Yamaguchi, I want you to put that kind of pressure on me—but I’m only going let you be worried for a moment. Because I’m still good at this job, even if I refuse to play dirty anymore. We’re going to change things, Yamaguchi. You’re going to help me. And I’m—” Kei says, pointing the stoker straight at Yamaguchi, who is _trying not to giggle behind his hands_ on the couch. “I…am drunk.”

 

“Tsukki,” Tadashi laughs. “I _know_.”

 

He flops down on the couch and lets Tadashi lean over and clean the split skin beneath his eye. Even though it hurts like hell he tenses up when Tadashi pulls away to trade the disinfectant swabs for an ice pack wrapped in a dishtowel. Tadashi’s palms feel like feathers on his skin and he finds himself leaning into the tips of his fingers.

 

“So?” Tadashi says, pressing the ice pack to his blackened eye. He places his other hand on Kei’s cheek, and the flutter in Tadashi’s stomach is worth the slight guilt over hitting on his drunk, but _hot_ , but _definitely_ _very_ _drunk_ boss.

 

“So?” Kei repeats.

 

“What happened to your eye?”

 

“I think you mean _who_ ,” Kei mutters. “And that _who_ is Oikawa Tooru.”

 

“That guy won’t give you a break, huh?” Tadashi shifts so his knees are digging into the couch, so he’s a little taller than Kei. “Don’t worry. Like you said, we’ll beat him one day. You know, businesswise. Not physically.”

 

“Actually. I hit him first.”

 

“Oh?” Tadashi pulls away the ice pack for a moment. Kei hisses, and Tadashi touches his hair in apology.

 

“Yeah.” Kei stops. He debates telling Yamaguchi why. It’s not a good idea, but he knows what he’s doing when he opens up his mouth a moment later. “Yeah, well, I can’t have a guy with a personality that shitty badmouthing my employees.”

 

“Employ _ee_ ,” Tadashi corrects, and he—accidentally-on-purpose—turns Kei’s face closer to his when he puts the ice pack back in place.

 

Tadashi is pretending to focus on the nasty gash below his eye. Kei realizes he’s going to have to keep telling the story for himself—Yamaguchi is not making this easy for him, for a guy who usually talks _too_ much, asks for _too_ many details, in a way that is just shy of irritating.

 

“Well, he said you made a bad decision, letting me drag you around like this. He was probably right that you made a bad decision, but…he was wrong about you being any less critical—any less essential to this, um, _business operation_ that we have than anyone else.”

 

“Aw,” is all Yamaguchi says, teasing.

 

Kei frowns. He won’t be out-embarrassed here. He repeats himself, more boldly: “You’re just as important as anyone else, Yamaguchi. More important, really.”

 

“To this ‘business operation’?” Tadashi’s voice is innocent, but Kei is satisfied with the telltale pink behind his freckles.

 

“To this business operation.” Kei wishes he could turn his face away, but it’s still being held firm in Tadashi’s hands. He wonders if his cheeks are burning as radioactive red as they feel. He tries to avert his eyes, but somehow looking _down_ is even worse.

 

“Yeah, well, it was exciting, at least,” he says. “I mean, I’ve never punched anyone before.”

 

Tadashi pulls away and props his elbow on the top of the couch. “Oh?”

 

Kei mirrors his movement. “Yeah.”

 

Both of them would swear they leaned in first, which, later, is part of the problem.

 

This is one of the consolation prizes of widowhood, Tadashi thinks. He knows a good kiss when he sees one, or—even better—receives one. And his kiss with Tsukki is perfect, or as perfect as a kiss with your drunk boss can get, easy to melt into, and when he guides Tsukki’s hands to his waist, they settle warm at the hem of his wonderful, beautiful, obscene sweater. Tadashi moves his hands back to Tsukki’s face, clambering to his knees, pulling him up—

 

“Ow,” Kei says, uninflected, breaking the kiss.

 

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he says, even though he is only a little sorry.

 

Outside, a car honks, and they both startle.

 

“Oh, right,” Tadashi says. “I called you another cab, before we, um. Before.”

 

“Right,” Kei says slowly. “Thanks.”

 

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“Yes. In the evening. But I’ll have a cab come by for Azumane-san and Yaku morning. Hinata and Kageyama’s kid wants a playdate, apparently.”

 

“Really?” Tadashi’s face lights up. “That’s great. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s great.”

 

“Good night, Yamaguchi,” he says.

 

“Good night, Tsukki.”

 

When the door closes behind him, Kei considers some of the questionable decisions he’s made in his life.

 

He's been full of those, lately, but at least this one likes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how much do you wanna bet canonverse tsukki listens to dark side by kelly clarkson and stares at yama full of teen angst
> 
> next time: light on the sports, heavy on the dating
> 
> @laubear on twitter 0:^)
> 
> 11/7/15 UPDATE: im really sorry i haven't had time to update this fic in over a month! i will come back to it this year, i swear. along with some other things :3c


	4. actual human adults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hinata and Kageyama learn to use their indoor voices. Tsukki and Yamaguchi are bad at not kissing.

The paper is still warm when Kei picks up the spreadsheets from the printer, and the sun streaming through the makeshift office’s window bounces off it brightly. Kei grips the pages practically white-knuckled, and the permanent dissatisfied crease between his brow deepens as he reads.

 

“I _did_ go to school for accounting,” Tadashi reassures him.

 

“Hm?”

 

“You’re kind of making a face like ‘There’s no way these numbers could be correct _._ ’ I promise I’m not a fraud. I’m certified,” he says, jabbing a thumb at his chest.

 

Kei shakes his head. “No. The numbers are right. I was hoping we could get some proper office space, but I lost a lot in some property investments a few years back, and I sunk a lot into the apartment, too…”

 

 “You don’t need to explain it to me,” Tadashi says, raising his hands. “I live in my brother’s house. With a family discount on rent.”

 

“We at least deserve desks,” Kei says.

 

“We wouldn’t need an office for that.”

 

“Maybe just a closet, then.”

 

Tadashi laughs. Kei wishes he didn’t like his laugh so much.

 

“About the other night,” he says suddenly.

 

Tadashi leans forward. “Yeah?”

 

“What I did was…highly inappropriate. And unfair to you. You’re my employee, and you gave up a secure job for the sake of this company…” He huffs. “And I took advantage of you. Sorry.”

 

“Oh?” Tadashi blinks.

 

“It’s not good,” he continues. “For two people working together. To have an atmosphere.”

 

“Of course. Atmosphere,” Tadashi says. “You know, I’m glad you said that.”

 

“Good. Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

 

“Same paragraph, same sentence.”

 

“Great. I mean, do you want to get dinner when I’m back from Tokyo?”

 

“Absolutely,” says Tadashi.

 

***

 

But before his dinner _thing_ with Tadashi, Kei has a meeting with Japan’s national volleyball team.

 

Hinata and Kageyama meet him at the airport. He notices them exchange glances when he sits by himself in Economy, and not with them in Business class. But at least he can look forward to his dinner thing tonight. Though the flight is only an hour, he finds himself drifting off, thinking of freckles and wondering why it feels so much nicer to have someone else touch your hair.

 

Kei has arranged it so the Oddball Duo will join the team’s morning practice, then he’ll have lunch with the team captain, Sawamura Daichi, and one of their organizers, Takeda Ittetsu. No word on whether Manager Ukai is going to show up, yet, but Kei has a good feeling about today. Or rather, he has the feeling that if he doesn’t make today good, he isn’t going to have a good day for a very long time, so he’d better not fuck up.

 

The gym looks pretty much like every other he’s been in. If there’s anything that’s not glamorous about the lives of professional athletes, Kei has learned, it’s that their practice doesn’t look too different from a high school team’s—a bunch of sweaty guys who need attitude adjustments sweltering under fluorescent lights.

 

Another reason Kei has never been able to understand athletes: certainly there are easier ways to make money, and at least you get to dress like an adult while you do them.

 

Kei must not be able to keep the unpleasant look off his face when makes eye contact with Bokuto, only a week into his tenure on the national team, looking right at home even amongst its mostly older and more nondescript players. Watching Bokuto deflate at the sight of him is pretty satisfying. He wonders if he left a mark on Oikawa with his amateurish punch, and whether Bokuto would have put two and two together when he met back up with his new agent.

 

On the court opposite Bokuto, Captain Sawamura spikes a toss delivered to him by one of their reserve setters, Sugawara Koushi.

 

Sugawara notices the Oddball Duo and waves them over.

 

Hinata takes a running leap at Sugawara, practically toppling both of them over. “Good to see you too, Hinata,” he grunts, steadying his weight. Hinata clings to him like a koala, nuzzling his head into his shoulder.

 

“It’s great to see you Sugawara-senpai,” Kageyama says.

 

“We played together in college,” Hinata explains, glancing at Kei over Sugawara’s shoulder.

 

“Sort of,” Sugawara teases. “Tobio-kun took my regular spot only a couple of games into the year. It was probably pretty obvious how jealous I was of you back then.”

 

Kageyama pales. “N-not at all!”

 

“Well, it worked out for both of us anyway.” Sugawara sighs, nudging Hinata off of him. “It took you long enough to get here.”

 

“We haven’t technically signed yet,” Kageyama grumbles.

 

“Tsukishima’s gonna take care of that for us, though,” Hinata says.

 

“Oh, Tsukishima Kei?” asks Sugawara, turning to face him. “From SMN?”

 

“Formerly,” Kei says, sticking out his hand to shake Sugawara’s. “I’m freelance, now.”

 

Sugawara laughs. “Sounds complicated. I hope you don’t mind if we start warming up Hinata and Kageyama now?”

 

“Sure.” He motions to Hinata and Kageyama. “Get changed, weirdos.”

 

After said weirdos make their way to the locker room, Captain Sawamura sidles up next to Sugawara. “Tsukishima-san,” he says. “A pleasure to see you. I trust Kageyama’s shoulder has made a complete recovery?”

 

“He’s better than ever.”

 

“Glad to hear it.”

 

“You’ll see it, too,” Kei promises.

 

Hinata and Kageyama begin the practice as each other’s partners. Kei wishes they wouldn’t insist on showing off with their quicks from the start—the team just picked up _Bokuto,_ for crying out loud, god knows they don’t need any more unconventional players throwing off the rest of the team—but when they switch up with the others, Tsukishima feels more at ease. He finds a seat on the bench next to Takeda-san, who smiles at him but continues dutifully taking notes for the absent manager, Ukai. Fine with Kei; he’s dead-focused on the practice, hoping to cite any particularly successful plays in the upcoming negotiation. He notes when Kageyama spikes a powerful straight and Sawamura receives it with an _oomph_ ; he can bring up Kageyama’s versatility, potentially to steer the conversation away from Hinata’s largely offensive abilities. But Hinata is doing well, too, even nails a service ace, which Tsukishima knows for a fact he’s never done in-game in his entire professional career. Plus he and Bokuto seem to get along swimmingly.

 

Things go awry, though, when Kageyama and Hinata end up back together after a full rotation, for spike practice.

 

The first-string libero seems to be having trouble going after Hinata’s spikes, and he looks kind of pissed. Hinata keeps nailing it straight down every time, forcing him to dive for the save. Worse, the libero’s frustration is contagious; Kageyama tosses progressively faster until Hinata has to jump diagonally just to brush it with his fingertips.

 

“What the hell, Tobio?” Hinata snaps.

 

“Quit jerking him around,” Kageyama says, jutting a thumb at the libero. “Have you forgotten how to do drills since we left the Sunbirds?”

 

“If you want me to spike normally, then toss normally!”

 

“Want to say that again?”

 

“Quit speeding up!”

 

“Me speeding up is supposed to tell _you_ to slow down.”

 

“How the hell does that make any sense!”

 

Hinata dodges two jabs from Kageyama, then ducks and grabs him around the waist, digging in his heels and trying to barrel him to the ground.

 

Kei flies from the bench and yanks Hinata back by the collar of his sweaty t-shirt.

 

“Are you serious?” Kei hisses. “In case you haven’t noticed, today is _not_ standard procedure. We’re only here because of the good grace of Captain Sawamura.” He turns Hinata loose. “Don’t mess it up.”

 

Neither Kageyama nor Hinata apologize to him, but Kei’s harsh reprimand seems to piss them off more than even the other is able to. If it’s Kei versus the Oddball Duo or the Oddball Duo against each other, he knows which is less troublesome.

 

The two of them settle down for the rest of practice. Still, later, after Kei, Sawamura, and Takeda sit down for lunch in a nearby bar, their outburst is the first thing the captain brings up.

 

“Be serious, Tsukishima-san,” he says. “You know as well as I do there is no room for ego on our team.”

 

“Of course not,” he snaps, praying Sawamura understands he’s annoyed because of his stupid clients, not because Sawamura’s statement was out of line—god knows it’s not. “There are six players on the court, after all.”

 

“And plenty more in reserve,” Sawamura says.

 

Takeda motions to the bartender. “A round of beer?” he calls out, hoping to interrupt the tension. Neither Captain Sawamura nor Kei touch their drinks, and by the end of the meal, Takeda’s downed all three.

 

Kei had been prepared for all of Sawamura’s concerns with regard to the Oddball Duo—their recklessness, the number of penalties they’ve accrued, the atmosphere they create at practices. This doesn’t mean he’s easy to crack, though. Sawamura values stability. As far as captains go, he actually seems more interested in the team as an environment than he does winning—a preference for dignity and reliability over world championships.

 

Kei is grateful that Takeda is filling in for Manager Ukai, who had made it seem on the phone like the team probably didn’t have the money to take on the Oddball Duo. Ever since Kei lost his job—no, ever since he woke up in a cold sweat one night and wrote a memo that he is still pretty certain ruined his life—he has been hyperconscious of how everything seems to come down to money. It’s scary being on the other side of things now: a financially unsound person with a financially unsound company. But Takeda assures him there is room in their budget for two more players, especially with a few veterans retiring come season’s end.

 

If only Sawamura would budge.

 

Kei pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Sawamura-san, I understand where you’re coming from. Better than anyone. But the fact remains these two led the Suntory Sunbirds to their most successful consecutive seasons yet. Hinata’s spikes are relentless. And Kageyama’s tosses are so precise it gives me the creeps. Don’t just picture them as players on your team. They could be leaders.”

 

Sawamura considers this politely. “I can’t deny they score.”

 

Kei grits his teeth. Does this guy need him to get all mushy? Because he will. Even if it kills him. That’s how Kei 2.0 operates.

 

“You meet a lot of egos in sports,” Kei starts, and Takeda looks up from the third beer that he’s been nursing without a hint of red in his cheeks. “Maybe that’s inevitable. But all signs point to them being good guys, despite how they may look. And I don’t get it either, but they’re good fathers, too. They always mean well. And they want nothing more than to bring Japan to the top of the world, just like the rest of your team.”

 

Sawamura laughs at the grudgingness in Kei’s voice, but at least he’s smiling.

 

“You almost sounded like Takeda-san for a minute there,” Sawamura says.

 

“Really?” Kei and Takeda say at the same time.

 

***

 

Sawamura and Takeda promise a deal from Manager Ukai by next Monday. Kei can’t even enjoy it when he gets off the phone at the airport gate; he’s exhausted from the stress and wonders if he can postpone his dinner thing with Yamaguchi until tomorrow. He’s been grinding his teeth so hard he thinks he might have to schedule an emergency dentist appointment instead.

 

One of the national team’s secretaries was nice enough to put together a bag of team merchandise for Kei, though, so he figures he can at least bring it over and cancel the dinner in person. He hates to drop the money on another cab, especially after coming face to face with the hard evidence of his dismal financial situation. But he also doesn’t want to ask Tadashi for too many rides, especially not until he gives him his first paycheck.

 

Yaku answers the door this time. Kei doesn’t see him at first, just stares over his head into the empty living room. Yaku tugs at his leg and says, “Hi, Tsukishima-san.”

 

“You didn’t get any taller since last week, huh?” Kei says. The kid sticks out his tongue and leads him into the kitchen.

 

He greets Akaashi, the disapproving brother, who is reading a newspaper at the counter and drinking coffee. “Late shift at the hospital,” he explains. “Tadashi’s just getting ready.”

 

“Right. Thanks.” Kei looks at the bag in his hand, and sits at the table next to Yaku, who is coloring.

 

“You like sports?” he asks.

 

Yaku shakes his head.

 

“Me neither.”

 

Yaku does look interested, though, when Kei pulls out an enormous sweatshirt with the national team’s logo emblazoned on the chest. Yaku climbs inside it. His arms swim in the sleeves, and he looks quietly delighted.

 

“This is perfect,” he says to Kei, “for my upcoming Arctic expedition.”

 

Kei can’t help but laugh at this. As far as kids go, Yaku is pretty funny. He keeps taking merch out of the bag and showing it to Yaku, who explains to Kei how he will use it in all of his future scientific fieldwork—a windbreaker for a mountain hike, a fanny pack he’ll take caving. He takes out two baseball caps and assigns one to Kei for an archeological dig.

 

“I didn’t know I was invited,” Kei says.

 

“Duh,” says Yaku.

 

A few minutes later Tadashi comes into the kitchen. He spies the mountain of merchandise and says, “Oh god, you really didn’t have to do all this for Yaku!”

 

Kei looks up, ready to apologize—he came here to _cancel_ their dinner after all, but when he sees Yamaguchi in an extremely soft-looking sweater, sleeves pushed up on his freckled forearms, a hand on his heart—his headache suddenly evaporates. Kei himself is still in business dress, not looking nearly as stylish—unless salaryman chic is in and nobody told him—and suddenly he’s the one feeling self-conscious.

 

“Wow,” he says. “Hi.”

 

Tadashi pales, then turns bright red. “What kind of ‘wow’ was that? Seriously, tell me. Before I die from embarrassment.”

 

Kei makes a face. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

 

“Sorry, Tsukki.”

 

Kei tugs on the brim of Yaku’s baseball cap. “Your dad doesn’t look sorry at all, does he?”

 

Yaku shrugs. Akaashi leaves the kitchen in a huff, unable to listen to his younger brother flirt for a moment longer.

 

“Was there a place you had in mind? For dinner?” Tadashi asks.

 

“Actually, there’s a Thai place downtown.” There is lightheadedness where his headache was only a minute before.

 

“Great,” Tadashi says, and removes a light jacket from the coat rack. Yaku gets up, too, and grabs an adorably tiny denim jacket. “Oh no, buddy,” his dad says, patting his hair. “This is grown-up’s night. Asahi will come and hang out with you in a few minutes.”

 

Yaku pulls Kei down for a hug before he leaves. He promises his dad to be in bed by 9:00.

 

Kei has given the taxi a thousand yen to hang out outside for a while—but he doesn’t wanna make the guy wait forever, so he goes ahead of Tadashi. Akaashi, cross-legged on the couch, catches his younger brother in the living room before he leaves.

 

“Be smart,” he says.

 

“Did you see, Keiji?” Tadashi asks. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen Yaku hug a guy like that—like a dad.”

 

“Jeez, no crying before the date,” Akaashi says. “Cry after, like a normal person. And be careful crossing the street.”

 

Tadashi pulls himself together with a deep breath and leaves.

 

Yaku peers up from behind the couch. “Don’t _you_ look pleased,” Akaashi says flatly.

 

***

 

There’s a short wait at the restaurant, which is lit in dark golds and browns and is reasonably popular, even on a weekday evening.

 

“I’m not actually great with spicy food,” Tadashi admits.

 

“We could have gone somewhere else,” Kei says.

 

He shrugs. “I’ve got a five-year-old kid. The only dinners out I’ve seen the last couple of years have involved a lot of chicken nuggets and French fries.”

 

“You _like_ fries, though.”

 

“Just because fries are delicious doesn’t mean I don’t like grown-up food, too.”

 

“We can try Italian next time, then,” Kei says, and Tadashi’s grin widens.

 

“So, how did it go today? In Tokyo?” he asks, leaning his chin on his hands.

 

“Pretty well,” Kei says. “We’ll hear from them by Monday.”

 

“That’s great!”

 

“Yeah, hopefully.”

 

“You worried?” Tadashi asks. Kei grimaces. He leans over the table a little and finds Kei’s hand. He lets it rest there for a moment to see if Kei will pull away—which he doesn’t—and says, “Hey, Tsukki, let’s not talk about work.”

 

Kei exhales. “Fine by me.”

 

The waiter walks over to refill their water, which gives Kei a moment to remember how to hold a non-work-related conversation with a normal, human adult—as opposed to a sweaty, blockheaded athlete.

 

“What did you do before accounting?”

 

“School, Tsukki,” Tadashi says. “I’m only 26.”

 

“Well, I’m only 28.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good?”

 

Tadashi laughs at him. Kei rolls his eyes, but part of him thinks he’s probably already getting used to this.

 

“And before then?” Kei asks. “Any shitty part-time jobs in high school?”

 

“I did the prep school route, actually,” he says. “So I was only allowed during summer break. I worked at an ice cream shop in the port district. I got into an argument with the owners pretty quickly and quit.”

 

“Really?” Kei says. “So this isn’t the first time you’ve walked out on a job.”

 

“What are you, my boss?” Tadashi says. Kei seems more at ease now that Tadashi is the one talking. He goes onto explain his long and winding history of failing horribly to choose his battles, from group history projects in college to a string of detentions in high school.

 

Tadashi sighs after he realizes he’s been talking for ten minutes, too intense for their waiter to come over and interrupt them to get their order. He apologizes to the waiter about eight times before they’ve picked out their food and a bottle of wine.

 

“You can probably tell I’m pretty bad at feelings,” Tadashi says, waving his arms like he’s making an excuse.

 

Kei snorts at this. “You? Bad at feelings?”

 

“In a different way from you, Tsukki.”

 

“Hey,” Kei says. His expression doesn’t quite match Tadashi’s, but there is something serious and unaffected about it that makes a giggle well up in Tadashi’s chest. “In any case, let’s try to meet in the middle. And quit laughing at me.”

 

“Sorry, Tsukki. I don’t know why I can’t seem to keep it together around you.”

 

“Because I’m hilarious,” he deadpans.

 

By the end of the date, Tadashi’s hand has settled permanently on Kei’s. Later, when asked how the food was, neither really remembers.

 

***

 

They reach Tadashi’s house after eleven, slightly tipsy and overwarm in the muggy night air. Kei is careful to avoid too many points of contact as he walks him up the front steps, freezing when Tadashi moves to hug him goodbye.

 

“Well,” Kei says stiffly, pulling back. “This would be good night.”

 

“Good night,” Tadashi says. It doesn’t sound like ‘good night’. It sounds like ‘Let’s keep talking.’ It sounds like ‘Come inside.’

 

The thought makes him swallow.

 

Kei twitches back suddenly. Was he leaning in? He’s not sure.

 

Tadashi doesn’t look sure, either. He raises his arms for a half-second, like he’s going to hug him again or take both of Kei’s hands in his own. His arms reconsider. Then Tadashi leans in and kisses him so quickly Kei’s not sure whether it happened at all.

 

“See you tomorrow,” Kei says, a funny feeling in his throat, like when he eats pineapple.

 

He is highly allergic to pineapple.

 

“Good night, Tsukki.”

 

Kei must not be the one piloting his own stupid 190-centimeter meat suit, because before he knows it, he’s reaching for Tadashi’s biceps, soft and warm beneath his palms, and pushing the V-neck wide over his freckled shoulders. Tadashi stifles a giggle, and Kei looks up at him seriously. The laughter evaporates in his throat. Kei’s shaking, and he think Tadashi might be shaking too, although he can’t be sure, really, as he presses his lips to one of his freckled shoulders, fitting his hands on either side of his waist, moving to the other shoulder in a line across his collarbone.

 

“Tsukki,” Tadashi manages.

 

Kei makes a sound of acknowledgement, cheek nuzzling the crook of his neck. His nose is pressed to his throat. Warm air ghosts across his skin. Tadashi leans down, hovering over Kei’s ear in a way he hopes is sexy and not just ticklish.

 

“I think you should not come in,” he says. “Or come in. Depending on how you feel.”

 

“Same to you,” Kei says, and returns his attention to the side of Tadashi’s neck.

 

“No, Tsukki,” he says. “I have to go in. I live here.”

 

Kei groans. Stupid. So stupid.

 

“Okay,” he says, at last.

 

Tadashi smiles slowly. “Let me send Asahi home,” he says, backing into the door. His hip bumps into the handle pretty hard, but he clamps down on the entirely unsexy yelp of pain that follows.

 

Asahi is on the couch texting someone, Yaku asleep in his lap. He looks up at Tadashi guiltily.

 

“Yaku’s been out for hours,” he says. “I was afraid of waking him.”

 

Tadashi waves him off. “Sure, sure. I’ll pretend he didn’t bully you into another _Land Before Time_ marathon.”

 

“How’d the date go?”

 

“It’s still going.”

 

Asahi raises his eyebrows.

 

“Is Keiji home?” Tadashi asks.

 

“Nope. One of his patients took a turn for the worse.” Asahi gathers Yaku in his arms with exaggerated caution as he moves from the couch.

 

“Would you mind putting Yaku to bed and then…?”

 

“Scram?” Asahi smiles. Tadashi nods, feeling grateful. At least Asahi—unlike his hypercynical brother—seems excited about this new guy.

 

“I can always count on you, Asahi.” He reaches out and touches Yaku’s forehead affectionately. His kid is sound asleep. Good; Tadashi has a lock on his bedroom door, but the thought of needing it is mortifying.

 

Which reminds him of the embarrassingly desperate feeling knotted in his stomach.

 

“Um, like, now,” he clarifies.

 

Asahi clears out in under a minute. On his way out, he passes Kei, who is staring at his shoes on the porch. Asahi coughs to get his attention, which Kei seems loath to give.

 

“Tadashi’s great. He’s a really great guy,” Asahi starts.

 

“I know,” Kei says. Mortified annoyance radiates off of him in waves.

 

“Oh,” says Asahi. “Well. Good night, then.”

 

Kei looks at Tadashi standing in the entryway, hands clasped behind him, face flushed a soft pink. He raises a finger to his lips—Yaku’s sleeping, after all—and tugs on both of Kei’s hands with his own, walking him backward down the hall, toward the bedroom.

 

Tadashi’s room is neat, except for a few stray articles of clothing crumpled on the carpet. Tadashi is quick to add both of their shirts to the pile on the floor. When he glances back up at Kei, he looks puzzled.

 

“Oh,” Kei says.

 

“Oh?” Tadashi panics.

 

Kei slaps his own forehead. “No, I mean—I was just surprised. You don’t have freckles on your stomach, I kind of just assumed—” His blush is even darker than the first time they kissed—was that really a few nights before?

 

“Tsukki, do you not know how freckles work?” Tadashi asks, a lilt of mock concern in his voice. “Or did you think I was sunning shirtless in the backyard during off hours?”

 

“Shut up,” says Kei. “It’s not like that many people have them.”

 

Tadashi tilts his head and smiles. “Do you like my freckles?”

 

He frowns. “Obviously.”

 

“Good,” says Tadashi. He steps closer to Kei, removes his glasses, and sets them on the nightstand.

 

“I can’t _see_ , Yamaguchi.”

 

“Here,” Tadashi says, guiding him to the bed. He flops down next to him, taking Kei’s face in his hands and brushing his thumbs over the pink coloring his cheekbones.

 

“Now, where were we?” he asks.

 

***

 

Tadashi thinks his bed has never felt so luxurious as it does this morning, soft and warm and with his gangly boss’s feet dangling over the edge. It takes a few minutes and a daydream about breakfast in bed before he convinces his body to peel itself from the mattress. He shuffles into the kitchen and starts up some scrambled eggs and toast, hoping if he moves quietly enough no one else in the house will stir. Still, his head’s a little fuzzy from all the wine, and he has no idea when Tsukki is going to wake up.

 

Tadashi regrets his romantic breakfast fantasy when he feels his brother’s glare boring holes in the back of his skull. “Good morning, Keiji,” he huffs, pushing the eggs around in the pan.

 

“Morning.”

 

Tadashi turns around, eyeing him suspiciously. Akaashi looks sleepy, but he always looks sleepy. Did he and Tsukki keep everyone up last night—?

 

“How did your date go?” asks Akaashi.

 

“Um,” he says. Akaashi takes a step forward; Tadashi shrinks back, bumping into the stove.

 

“How did your _date_ go?”

“It went— _fine_ , Keiji, more than fine.”

 

Akaashi glares.

 

“It ran long.”

 

Akaashi folds his arms. Tadashi thinks it’s unfair when he looks at him with that flat gaze, schooled to induce as much guilt as possible, exactly like their mom used to do when they were little. It gets to him.

 

“Okay. Just remember it’s not fair to Yaku for him to be waking up to strange men in the house every day.”

 

“Every day! I’ve barely been with anyone since Ichirou. And even when I have, it’s never been worth making _breakfast_ over.”

 

His brother relents. “Fine, sorry. Let me try again. How did your date go?”

 

Tadashi sighs blissfully.

 

“That good, huh.”

 

“Yeah,” Tadashi says. His head swims just remembering it: the way they leaned over the table in the restaurant, whispering conspiratorially to one another, the quiet surprise on Kei’s face as he listened to Tadashi tell stories from his childhood, so different from the face he always used to wear at SMN. It felt like something private, and precious.

 

Plus the stuff that came after, which was, well. Really nice.

 

Akaashi steps around Tadashi and turns the stove off. When he speaks again, he avoids eye contact, as if Tadashi wouldn’t recognize the cautious lilt in his brother’s voice from a mile away. “I’m glad you’re having fun. Just…take it easy, okay? He’s your boss.”

 

“Keiji, come on,” Tadashi begs. “Please. Cut me some slack. Everything is really uncertain right now. Don’t I deserve something certain?”

 

“No,” Akaashi says. “Not necessarily. And you _do_ have something certain already. If you need a hint, he’s sleeping in this house right now, he loves you unconditionally, and he’s not a weird tall blond asshole.”

 

“Yaku likes him too, you know,” he says. “You think I’m not looking for my own son’s approval before anyone else?”

 

“I’m worried you’re getting in deep, professional and romantically, with a guy who might not have an emotional marble in his head.”

 

“But you always worry, Keiji,” Tadashi whines.

 

“He’s desperate right now and you know it. He has nothing. You think a guy like that has any friends? He’s a _lone_ , Tadashi, and he doesn’t have his sociopathic sports job to keep him on the straight and narrow anymore. Don’t let him take advantage of you.”

 

Tadashi stomps his foot. “So what does that make me? Maybe _I’m_ the one taking advantage of _him_. Would that make me a bad person? When I was nineteen I married someone who was charming and interesting and not always very nice to me and—he died. Okay? So why shouldn’t I hold on to this guy when every fiber of my being is telling me he’s the one?”

 

“Jeez, Tadashi,” Akaashi says, looking a little pale. “I was just looking for, you know, some fun little details.”

 

“Here’s a fun detail,” Tadashi says. He stares his brother straight in the eyes with a look Akaashi has had memorized since the first day of junior high, when Tadashi bumped into a cute boy in the hallway before homeroom.

 

“Don’t say it,” Akaashi groans.

 

“I’m going to say it.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“I think I love him.”

 

“Oh my _god_.”

 

At precisely that moment, Kei enters the kitchen, Yaku clinging to his back like a monkey.

 

“Look what I found,” Kei says. Yaku untangles himself from his neck and pads across the linoleum in search of Cheerios.

 

“Oh! Tsukki!” Yamaguchi squeaks, pale as a ghost.

 

Akaashi, on the other hand, has gone from his usual ghost-pale to completely red. “Good morning, Tsukishima-san.” He fumbles around with the kettle in front of him. “Tea?”

 

“No, thanks,” he replies, and opens the newspaper at the table. “Tall blond assholes prefer coffee.”

 

“Me too,” Tadashi says, willing his voice down from the mesosphere. “I’ll start a pot.” He whirls around to face the stove and tugs on his brother’s arm.

 

“He definitely heard all that,” Tadashi hisses, cupping a hand to the side of his mouth.

 

“No shit,” Akaashi replies. They peer over their shoulders simultaneously.

 

Kei looks up, regards them politely, and returns to the paper. There’s a faint smile on his lips, satisfied and probably—hopefully—amused. They turn back to the stove.

 

“This is not happening,” Tadashi whispers.

 

“It is,” Akaashi whispers back.

 

“Why is he cutting us slack?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s freaking me out.”

 

“Me too.”

“Tsukki I’m making you cereal,” Yaku says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand we're back. sorry it took literally three months. there's an update schedule now, though! for the next three weeks a chapter will go up every sunday. then the fic will be done, and i can write something a little less unwieldy than this sporty romcom disaster
> 
> tune in next time for yelling about sports, the return of asanoya, commercial director ennoshita, late-night texting, existential wallowing, and YACHI
> 
> twitter: laubeary  
> tumblr: pizzawitch


	5. cross-prefectural bridge-burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The national team’s offer is not what they were expecting. Yamaguchi goes undercover. Tsukki tries to work his shit out. Ennoshita questions his life choices.

Tadashi awakens to cool, gray light filtering through the curtains. From somewhere beneath his comforter, his phone blares muffled that it’s time get up. Today is a big day, and he can’t waste time lazing around.

 

Tadashi doesn’t often have a reason to wake up at 6 am, anymore. Yaku sleeps until 7:30, and he’s usually not in communication with Tsukki until 9:00. And since Tsukki travels so much, attempting to conjure up some clients other than Hinata and Kageyama, Tadashi mostly telecommutes anyway. Sometimes they work in Tsukki’s oversized apartment; other times they set up camp in the converted basement of his and Akaashi’s house. Even this many weeks into the founding of their company, there’s still a lot that’s in flux.

 

Not that he minds all that much. He eats dinner with Tsukki a few nights a week, usually in one of their kitchens, once at the Hinata-Kageyama’s. They haven’t slept together again, at least not in any euphemistic sense of the word—they fell asleep on the couch one time while sorting out the various licenses freelancers apparently need. Tadashi woke up in his own drool and found he wasn’t nearly embarrassed about it as he should have been, all things considered.

 

“It’s the desert island effect,” Akaashi tells him. “When you spend all of your time isolated with another person, the relationship is bound to be intense.”

 

Tadashi knows what his brother is getting at: he thinks his feelings are disproportionate, disingenuous. Artificial. But so what if it’s artificial? Aren’t all relationships, at first? Don’t you need to risk a little faith and a little face when you’re letting yourself fall in love?

 

So Tadashi refuses to adopt his brother’s concerns as his own—besides, he’s too busy to worry. Establishing a business isn’t exactly a two-person job. He and Tsukki have months of work to go before they can do this thing right. The way that they have each other—however sloppy and stress-ridden and resembling a sitcom—is enough, for now.

 

Tadashi rubs the sleep from his eyes and pushes himself off the bed, feet fumbling along the floor for his slippers. Yaku must have climbed into bed into the middle of the night; a tuft of his light brown hair pokes out from the fluffy comforter, his body a tiny, curled-up lump in the spot where Ichirou used to sleep. Was it really only a few years ago that Tadashi was married, with a scrawny kid he loved so much it scared him, and a husband he didn’t love enough?

 

He doesn’t feel guilty anymore for feeling that way; there was no way he could have known Ichirou only had a few years left. Besides, he would still always _love_ him in an immense way; they were able to adopt Yaku, after all. But they were a bad match. Ichirou had been his senpai. Tadashi could never shake his belief that Ichirou was going to save him from some unknown, terrifying thing, and Ichirou had wanted it that way.

 

They were both probably selfish, in retrospect.

 

Tadashi understands where Akaashi is coming from. He’s worried that when he looks at Tsukki, he’s seeing what he first saw in Ichirou: someone who sees brilliant things in Tadashi that Tadashi can’t see for himself.

 

He thinks about the couple in the elevator. _You complete me_.

 

No—the circumstances with Tsukki are too out-of-the-ordinary for him to dream up. If there’s one thing Tsukki isn’t, it’s a fairy tale prince.

 

Tadashi gets ready. He puts on real business clothes for the first time in a while; the jacket hangs stiff on his shoulders. He drives to pick up coffee and doughnuts from the grocery store, and tries to arrange them on the kitchen table in a way that looks artful. He even manages to find four matching mugs for the coffee. Although now that he thinks about it, he’s not even sure athletes are allowed to have caffeine.

 

Tsukki arrives with Hinata and Kageyama a little after eight; Tadashi passes the time doing the crossword and coloring in the Ken-Ken squares (he has no idea how to play). He makes cereal for a sleepy Yaku and tells him to play in his room while the grown-ups are over.

 

“Good morning, Yamaguchi-san!” sings Hinata. He and Kageyama must be planning to practice later; they’re wearing their old Suntory Sunbird tracksuits with their names emblazoned on the back.

 

“You’re gonna wake up the baby,” Kageyama growls, elbowing his husband in the side. Tadashi smiles and shakes their hands.

 

Tsukki looks completely out of it; Yamaguchi gets the feeling he has barely slept the past week, worried about the specifics of the deal Manager Ukai is going to offer them, given how picky his clients are. He’s surprised when Tsukki absent-mindedly goes for a kiss on the cheek; Hinata and Kageyama exchange glances but don’t mention it.

 

Tadashi grabs Tsukki’s elbow and gives him his most reassuring glance. “Let’s have breakfast before we head down to the, um, office.”

 

Kageyama politely refuses coffee for the both of them, something about their dietary regimen, but they seem perfectly content to devour the doughnuts. Tsukki looks vaguely nauseated; Tadashi stifles laughter behind his hand.

 

After breakfast they gather around the computer in the basement, waiting for the email to pop up in Tsukki’s inbox. Hinata makes a whining noise, as if he is going to _die_ of not knowing. Eventually, the inbox automatically refreshes and Ukai’s email appears. The subject line says _offer_ without any capitalization or punctuation.

 

“Click it! Click it!” Hinata yells, jumping up and down. Kageyama tries to grumble at him to calm down, but the excitement comes through in his voice anyway. Tadashi swallows and navigates to the message, opens the attached PDF. The others squeeze around him, Hinata’s head on top of Tadashi’s own, as they read: _Tsukishima-san, we would like to invite your clients.._.

 

Kei turns away from the computer and _tsks_.

 

“Third string?” asks Hinata. “We’re third string?”

 

“No,” Kageyama says. “You’re third string. I’m second string.”

 

Hinata grabs his husband’s hand so hard they’re both white-knuckled. “We play together,” he says.

 

“I know that,” Kageyama mumbles, unable to meet his glance. Hinata wraps himself around Kageyama as if someone is actually going to tear them apart. Kageyama buries his face in Hinata’s hair and says, “I won’t play without you.”

 

“Yeah?” Kei says. “Well, you don’t have a choice.”

 

“Of course we do!” Hinata says. “Just tell them we won’t play without each other! I’m stronger than third string and they _know_ it.”

 

“And if Hinata’s strong enough to be second string, then why am I not first?” Kageyama says, as if he’s actually making a helpful point. Hinata whacks him on the back of his head. Kageyama pushes him away. “And don’t say that’s not true.”

 

Hinata flails again, and Kageyama grabs his arms, dragging them both to the ground. Tadashi wishes, distantly, that he had bothered to vacuum the carpet.

 

“If you’re so strong, prove it,” Kageyama growls, not letting go.

 

“Fuck you, Tobio!” Hinata tries to pry the hands off his forearms, struggling to drag the both of them back to their feet. “I am strong!”

 

“Are you two joking?” Kei asks, staring at the tangle of limbs on the carpet.

 

“Shut up!” they say at the same time. It’s like they remember they’re on each other’s sides at this point; Hinata looks at Kageyama with watery eyes and ceases struggling. Kageyama sighs and lets himself be pulled up to his feet.

 

“You,” Kageyama says to Kei. “This was your responsibility. Why did we stick with you if you weren’t going to help us like you said?”

 

Tadashi stands up so suddenly he knocks a stack of folders off the desk; the papers scatter. “How dare you! Tsukki’s been doing _everything_ for you guys—for weeks, now—without any compensation! Why did you stick with him? He wants to do things _right_ , unlike those bastards at SMN, who would send you into a game injured if it meant they got their New Year’s bonus! So if you can’t appreciate that, how about you at least show him some respect?”

 

Kei makes a face at him, covering up his mortification with distaste. “Show _us_ some respect, you mean.”

 

“Sorry,” Yamaguchi says. “I’m not as good at the insults as you.”

 

“No, that was really good,” Kageyama says.

 

“Give yourself a little credit, Yamaguchi-san,” Hinata says.

 

“Oh, um. Thanks.” Tadashi pales. “Well, if you really want to be convinced—here, you should just read what Tsukki wrote. I have it somewhere around—”

 

Tsukki buries his burning face in his hands. “Not now, Yamaguchi.”

 

“Well, then we can just proceed with the paperwork, I guess?” Tadashi squeaks. The room has fallen silent, what with everyone present having just embarrassed themselves one extent or another. “Manager Ukai wants signatures as soon as possible.”

 

“Would you mind taking care of that, Yamaguchi?” asks Kei. “I have a call I need to take in a few minutes.” He shoots a flat glance at the volleyball idiots and adds, “ About an endorsement deal.”

 

“Thanks,” Hinata says. Kageyama sighs and wraps an arm around his husband’s shoulder. They look at each other wistfully. It’s a little mushy, even for Tadashi, but he’ll take resignation over a fist fight in his own basement any day.

 

After Yaku finishes his Cheerios, he comes down to the office, bouncing a tennis ball off the concrete walls as his dad and Lev’s dads work at the computer. Tadashi asks him to go back upstairs, but Hinata insists it’s okay, and asks him various questions about whether he’s started kindergarten (he just finished) and whether he likes any sports (he’s more a playground kind of guy, actually).

 

“Hey, Yamaguchi-san,” Hinata says as he and Tobio slip into their coats, ready to go. “Does Yaku want to come over and play with our kid? I think they met at the party a little while ago, and Lev had a lot of fun.”

 

“I don’t _hate_ Lev,” Yaku says, clinging to his dad’s leg.

 

“That’s a big deal for him,” Tadashi explains. Hinata seems pleased. Tadashi helps Yaku jump into his sneakers and denim jacket, and pushes him in the direction of the Oddball Duo’s car.

 

The house feels remarkably quiet once Hinata, Kageyama, and Yaku are gone. Kei sits on the couch with his face buried in his hands. He takes a deep breath and sits up.

 

“Hey,” he says to Tadashi.

 

“You don’t look upset,” Tadashi says, more hopeful than surprised.

 

Kei shrugs. “I got the volleyball jerks a commercial.”

 

“Oh! That’s great!”

 

“I’ll finally be able to give you a paycheck, at least.”

 

“You know I’m not worried about that right now,” Tadashi says. He plops down next to Kei on the couch, purposely bumping their knees together. Kei looks at the place where their legs touch and relaxes into the couch cushions, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

“They’re probably awful actors, aren’t they,” Tadashi says.

 

“There’s not a doubt in my mind,” Kei says. “It’s a good thing the call came after the national deal, though. I wouldn’t have been able to convince the director otherwise.”

 

“What’s the commercial for?” Tadashi says.

 

“Socks,” Kei says, and they crumple onto each other, laughing.

 

It is 10 in the morning, and they are both exhausted.

 

***

 

Asahi sleeps in on his days off. It’s not that he finds taking care of Yaku so exhausting; just sometimes he isn’t sure what to do when he’s by himself. He feels a little guilty about this—for someone who spends so much time complaining how being around other people heightens his anxiety, he should probably enjoy his time alone a little more.

 

Well, it’s not untrue—there is no way he can relax around other people. But it turns out he can’t really relax when he’s by himself, either.

 

Lately, though, Asahi has had more time off, with Tadashi working from home so frequently. Some days Tadashi has him come over just to keep Yaku company and prepare dinner.

 

Cooking. Now that’s something Asahi isn’t bad at. It’s how he tends to start and end his days alone—preparing an early lunch around eleven, then again when it’s dinner time. In between he does laps at the pool, taking his time walking to and from. As long as he passes the time one way or another, it doesn’t really matter to him what he’s doing.

 

 _When’d_ _you become so unambitious, huh,_ his younger sister had asked him, at their last family reunion. It wasn’t a wholly accurate assessment, but Asahi knew what she meant—he had always been well-liked in high school, in spite of his social anxiety. He was tall and athletic enough to be considered good-looking, and he discovered that if a person is quiet enough, people will project all kinds of things onto them. Asahi had been lucky people saw good things in him: a strong, gentle giant who had led their high school volleyball team to victory frequently throughout his tenure as a regular member.

 

So people were a little surprised when he didn’t end up going to college on some kind of sports or academic scholarship. The truth was, their school was no powerhouse; being the best in a pool of mediocre players never fooled any recruiters. And because he had been so reserved, people had also figured he was smart, when his grades were middling at best.

 

It’s nearly eleven already; he should probably get up. But his bed is warm, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to activate his brain for the day, preferring the groggy fog between his ears to his anxiety-prone consciousness. Eventually his phone buzzes on the night stand, and he groans, “Okay, okay, I get it.”

 

It’s a text. He hasn’t actually entered the contact, but he recognizes the number.

 

_i kidnapped your kid. bring sandwiches by noon if you ever want to see him again. no skimping on the ham and cheese either_

Asahi is a little concerned, at first—should Noya really be sending texts like this? A lot of parents wouldn’t have the humor for it. But then he realizes his day is no longer looking so empty, and he feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

 

He plays along.

 

_Understood. Where should we make the switch?_

Noya texts him an address and adds _come alone no funny business either._

Asahi hums a song he doesn’t know the name of as he makes the sandwiches. He hopes convenience store bread is okay; he hasn’t gone to the grocery store in a week. He brushes his hair back into a ponytail and shrugs into a clean sweatshirt, searching for his keys before making his way out the door.

 

***

 

By the time Yaku’s babysitter arrives at the Hinata-Kageyama household, he and Lev have been playing upstairs for an hour, Noya checking in on them every time Lev topples a Lego tower or slams a drawer.

 

“My room is really cool, isn’t it?” Lev prods at Yaku, who sits on the highway-patterned play mat on his floor. Lev perches on the bed like it’s a boat, paddling with an invisible oar. “Land ho!”

 

“If you like sports, I guess,” Yaku says. He doesn’t want to admit that Lev’s room is actually very cool, much cooler than he ever imagined a bedroom could be. The lamps are shaped like volleyballs, the walls are painted like a court, and there’s a bunk bed with a ladder even though he knows Lev doesn’t have any siblings. ( _So we can have a sleepover on my birthday,_ Lev had said, to which Yaku had responded he’d rather walk the plank. The conversation, as much as two five-year-olds are capable of holding a conversation, had devolved into a sword fight, which had devolved into a wrestling match that ended in tears and an ice pack Lev had already dropped behind his bed.)

 

Lev laughs like a pirate—at least that’s what Yaku thinks he’s trying to do. “Oh, but it’s all the same color as my dads’ old team. They’re going to be on the national team now, so we hafta change the colors.”

 

Yaku asks, “Is it fun to have two dads?”

 

Lev glances down from the bunk with an uncharacteristic scowl. “It’s obviously better to have two dads than one. I don’t care about having a mom.”

 

Yaku shakes his head, running the toy car around in the patterns of the play mat. “I didn’t mean about a mom. I used to have two dads, too. Now I have one.”

 

“Really?” Lev leaps off the second bunk and lands in a graceless heap on the floor. “Where’s the other one?”

 

“He died,” Yaku says, shrugging. “I don’t remember that much though.”

 

“Hmmm,” Lev says.

 

“ _Hmmm_ what?” Yaku snaps. He rams the toy car at Lev’s knee. Lev grabs the car from Yaku, who clambers forward trying to grab it back, but Lev plants his hand in Yaku’s face. Yaku slaps Lev away but gives up on the car.

 

“So do you want two dads again?” Lev asks.

 

Yaku shrugs. “I dunno.”

 

Lev doesn’t respond for a moment, just sits rolling the car over his legs like they’re mountains. “You’re weird, Yaku,” he says.

 

“No, _you’re_ weird,” Yaku grumbles.

 

“Boys?” Noya calls up to them. “Asahi made us snacks. Come eat!”

 

“Last one’s a deflated volleyball,” Lev yells, stumbling to his feet. Yaku sticks out a leg and topples him, then takes advantage of the head start.

 

“No running on the stairs, Yaku,” Asahi says. It surprises him; he’s never had to tell Yaku something like that before.

 

Yaku sighs and rubs his face, a mannerism he’s probably picked up from any number of the stressed-out adults he is surrounded by in his own home. “You have no idea what I’ve put up with today,” he says.

 

A moment later Lev stumbles down the stairs, hurtling at similarly unsafe speeds. He leaps from the fourth step and straight into Noya’s arms. Asahi is impressed this maneuver doesn’t end in a 911 call.

 

The four of them sit down at the kitchen table and eat the ants on a log Asahi prepared. Lev wrinkles his nose at the name, but practically spits out his juice when Asahi takes a dramatic bite and raises his hands to his neck. “Oh no, I used real ants! Help!”

 

“Gross, Asahi-san,” Noya says through his laughter. He says in a voice that is probably an impression of Asahi, “Boys, no talking with food in your mouths.”

 

“Yaku, do you think you have anything to learn about manners from Noya-san?” Asahi asks with a wink. Yaku gives Noya a once-over and shakes his head vehemently.

 

“My boss says no,” Asahi says to Noya. Noya slaps his back so hard Asahi coughs on his celery. Lev looks impressed that Asahi has identified Yaku as his _boss_ , and starts calling him “boss” for the rest of snack time. Asahi notices the way Yaku’s face lights up at this.

 

Asahi knows he’s staring at Noya. And he knows how this will come across, if he gets caught. But he’s already made it clear that he’d rather Yaku have a friend like Lev than have himself go on a date, no matter how fun said date seems like it might be. So it won’t hurt just to _look_ , he thinks: not at his catlike eyes, or his elbows perpetually scabbed and bruised, or at his small nose, which is always crinkled with laughter. Asahi has the willpower to ignore the way Noya reaches over to him without even looking, shaking his arm when he’s making a point, searching automatically, it seems, for Asahi to back him up on every argument he makes to the two boys, whom he has a knack for riling up in a friendly way.

 

Eventually the boys run back upstairs, already in-character for a game of pretend involving Hot Wheels, a monster named after Lev, and a daring fighter pilot who can save them all called Yaku. The kids leave the kitchen like a storm—well, Lev does, anyway—and Noya sighs.

 

He turns to Asahi, grinning mischievously. “So what’s up with you, Asahi-san?”

 

“Huh?” Asahi says.

 

“Nothing,” Noya says. “So, did you hear their agent got them the national team?”

 

“Oh, really? That’s great,” Asahi says. “Yamaguchi has been really stressed about it, even though he pretends not to be.” He piles the crumpled up napkins on the plate and carries it to the sink. “When did that happen?”

 

“This morning, Asahi-san.” Noya tilts his head. “Weren’t you over at Yamaguchi-san’s before?”

 

Asahi feels his face burn. He hopes he doesn’t look splotchy. “It’s my day off, actually,” he admits.

 

Noya grabs his arm and pulls him back down into his seat. “Why didn’t you say so, Asahi-san? Here, I’m the one who should be doing the dishes, then.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Asahi insists.

 

Noya sighs. “Fine, then I’ll wash. You dry.”

 

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink, not speaking for a few minutes. Asahi feels a familiar fluttering in his stomach, and the glances he sneaks at Noya become more careful. Noya talks a lot, so it’s not usually hard to tell what he’s thinking. But when he clams up, Asahi realizes, he’s a total unknown.

 

“The national team’s in Tokyo, you know,” Noya says, eventually. “They might keep the house because their families are here, but for the most part they’re gonna be living down there.”

 

“Oh,” Asahi says. “It’s gonna be a hard time of year to find an elementary school for Lev, isn’t it?”

 

“Sure,” Noya says.

 

“What about you, Noya?” he asks. “What are you going to do?”

 

Noya drops the plate he’s washing back into the soapy puddle in the sink. He wipes his brow with the back of his arm, getting bubbles stuck in his hair. Asahi resists the impulse to reach over and push his bangs out of the way. Asahi wishes Noya would just _say something_ , so he could tell what the other man is feeling. Asahi is a sensitive guy; he’s not a mind-reader.

 

At last, Noya speaks, bumping their shoulders together. “Should I follow them, Asahi-san?”

 

Asahi shifts. “Well, what does your gut say?”

 

“My gut wants to know what _you_ think, Asahi-san.” Noya peers up, still smiling, but Asahi detects uncertainty in his eyes.

 

“I think,” Asahi says slowly, “that you already know you’re going to go with them, right? Because you’re part of their family. And that’s what’s making you sad.”

 

Noya laughs, a sound that always surprises Asahi with how loud and strong it is coming out of such a small guy. “I’m not _sad_ about it, Asahi-san,” he says. “I love my job.”

 

“It’s not unreasonable get upset about moving, Noya,” he says.

 

“Well, it’s not worth getting sad over.” Noya leans into Asahi’s side, sighing deeply. “I get kinda mad sometimes, though. That people can’t have everything they want.”

 

Asahi’s heart thumps in his chest. He doesn’t lean back into Noya, but he doesn’t lean away, either.

 

“That’s okay, too. But you’ve been in Tohoku your whole life, like you said. Maybe moving away is just part of growing up. Plus it’s Tokyo—that’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?”

 

“Please,” Noya says, flicking suds at Asahi. “I’m never growing up.”

 

Asahi laughs. “That’s something you can’t help, either, Noya.”

 

“Oh yeah? Just you wait—even when I’m a hundred and wrinkled I’ll still have the spirit and stamina of a kid, you’ll see.”

 

“I’ll see?” Asahi teases.

 

Noya furrows his brow at this, and Asahi thinks he might even be blushing a little. “You’re kind of mean, Asahi-san.”

 

Asahi is wounded. “Am not!”

 

“You _are_ ,” Noya insists, but there’s laughter and something else in his voice. “You send people mixed messages, Asahi-san. You seem like a serious model citizen when you’re taking care of Yaku, but you’re actually probably kind of a mess, aren’t you?”

 

Asahi freezes. “That’s…not wrong.”

 

“Of _course_ I’m not wrong,” Noya says. “I’m never wrong.”

 

“You told Lev mosquitos are in the same family as vampire bats,” Asahi points out. Noya head-butts his arm, and for a while, the topic of Tokyo is dropped.

 

Eventually Lev tires himself out, which is a relief—Asahi had begun to worry this was impossible. Noya puts a finger over his lips when he finds Lev in an awkward tangle of his own limbs on the floor, and he lifts the snoring boy onto the bottom bunk, winking at Yaku. Yaku pads down the stairs after them and says he wants to go home.

 

“Alright, get your shoes,” Asahi says.

 

“Can I take the keys?” Yaku asks.

 

“Sure,” Asahi says. “Go unlock the car for me, okay? I’ll be right behind you.”

 

Noya leans against the front door with his arms folded, smiling.

 

“You’re tough, Asahi-san,” Noya says. This surprises Asahi; no one who has ever known him that well has called him anything in the same family as _tough_. “Anyone else would have told me I should stay in Sendai; that’s obviously what I was trying to get you to say. But you’re actually pretty strict.” He sighs. “That’s what makes you a good babysitter.”

 

Asahi wants to protest, but that would mean unpacking everything Noya just said to him, so he just says, “Thank you.”

 

“You should come to Tokyo, too,” Noya says. “Teach a swim class. You can fit Yaku in your carry-on.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Asahi says, and he reaches out to rest a hand on Noya’s arm. “See you around.”

 

On the way home, Yaku seems exhausted from his afternoon with Lev. Still, there’s something upbeat about his temper, like when he shares trivia with other people. He’s more comfortable around adults than kids, Asahi knows, and maybe that’s not surprising—even though one of his parents passed away, he still lives in a house with his dad and uncle, spends most of time with Asahi, and eavesdrops on the surgeon’s club every Friday.

 

“Did you have fun with Lev?” Asahi asks.

 

“He’s so _annoying_ ,” Yaku complains. “And he thinks I’m weird and obviously he’s the one who’s weird. He never stops moving around. He’s so immature.”

 

Asahi smiles at the five-year-old kid next to him accusing his peers of immaturity. “Well, you won’t have to put up with him for much longer, you know. He’s gonna move to Tokyo with Hinata-san and Kageyama-san so they can play volleyball there.”

 

Yaku perks up. “Does that mean we get to visit Tokyo, then? I want to see Odaiba.”

 

Asahi hums, not wanting to make any promises. “Maybe your dad will take you.”

 

Yaku tilts his head. “But Noya’s your friend, so if I go play with Lev, you should come too, right?”

 

Asahi smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Sounds nice, doesn’t it.”

 

When Asahi gets home he calculates how frequently he could realistically ride the shinkansen back and forth from Tokyo in a year without going broke. He should teach Yaku that friendships are something you have to put effort into, shouldn’t he?

 

All in all, it’s the best day off he’s had in a while.

 

***

 

Tadashi has found that it is difficult to be a professional accountant without anything to account for.

 

Tsukki, of course, has insisted that Tadashi has been pulling his own weight; he is fed up with Tadashi’s constant suggestions otherwise. But Tadashi doesn’t buy it. In terms of his practical skills, he’s good with money, and that’s about it. Kei promises him this is more than he himself is good for; he claims there is nothing particularly difficult about being an agent, so long as you develop a caffeine addiction and disconnect the part of your brain that calculates appropriate empathetic response.

 

Tadashi figures he can’t do much about the way his brain works. He was the kind of kid who felt guilt about stepping on _floors_ lest they might possess a consciousness humans had yet to discover. But he is plenty upbeat, and not horrible with strangers. So he decides to give the agent thing a try for himself.

 

He doesn’t tell Kei, of course. He would protest vehemently, bringing up yet again that he still hasn’t been able to pay Tadashi, except to cover gas. So he is a little nervous when he squeaks out that he won’t be able to accompany Kei to Hinata’s and Kageyama’s commercial shoot. “Yaku’s got a doctor’s appointment,” he explains.

 

“Oh? Alright then,” Kei says. “Don’t forget the game tomorrow.” Tadashi has been accompanying Kei to a few nearby games for recruitment purposes, including a recent high school hockey championship, where they ate popcorn and aggressively passed out business cards to talented players. Afterward Akaashi had reminded him that it doesn’t count as a date if they get work done. Why are the people in his life so bad at having fun, again?

 

Where was he? Oh yeah, playing agent. Also violating his boss’s trust, and possibly more than one local business ordinance. But if it doesn’t work out, then Tsukki never has to know, right?

 

Tadashi had pulled the athlete’s contact information from Tsukki’s email, to which Tsukki had casually given him access when they started working together. Tadashi’s hands trembled as he punched the number into his phone. The figure skater on the other end had picked up, and, even more surprisingly, agreed to meet with him that same week; apparently she was wavering in her loyalty to SMN.

 

Now, a week later, Tadashi spots Yachi Hitoka in a nondescript café in one of Iwate’s livelier small towns. She has a scarf wrapped around her neck up to her mouth and big glasses with empty, cat-eyed frames. Tadashi guesses she’s trying to disguise herself.

 

“Um, Yachi-san?” he asks.

 

“Are you alone?” she asks, peering behind him.

 

“Of course!” he replies, although he checks over his shoulder reflexively. He settles into the chair opposite her. “Tsukishima-san is out of town right now.”

 

Yachi shakes her head, unraveling the scarf from her neck. “It’s not Tsukishima-san I’m worried about. It’s SMN. I shouldn’t be having this meeting, you know.”

 

“Oh! Well, don’t worry. Neither of us really keep in contact with them anymore,” Tadashi says. This is mostly true; he still receives the occasional text from Kiyoko checking up on him. He always insists he’s feeling _great_ , which isn’t a lie, most of the time.

 

“Really?” Yachi asks. Her shoulders relax, and Tadashi notices the star-shaped earrings dangling from either side of her head. If there’s a lull in the conversation maybe he can bring up astronomy. _Now you’re thinking like an agent_ , he cheers himself.

 

 “You know, I recognized you from the Bepsi commercial,” he says. “The one where you skate around and say _‘It’s cold as ice_!’” He thinks his impression of the tiny girl is actually pretty good.

 

Yachi must think otherwise. She flails her arms around and wails, “Don’t remind me!”

 

Tadashi flails back. “Oh god, I’m sorry! I—I didn’t mean to embarrass you!”

 

Yachi plants her face on the table and groans. “It’s okay. It could have been worse, honestly.” She pulls a thick, crumpled document out of her bag, and heaves a shuddering sigh. She braces her palms flat on the table—she’s steeling herself, Tadashi realizes.

 

“But I’m not going to do it again.” She points to a highlighted section of the contract: _three print ads, two television, all to be completed by December of this year_. “I can’t.”

 

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says. “Did they cheat you out of money?”

 

“No,” Yachi says.

 

“Oh? Um, then, were they hard to work with?”

 

“Not particularly. It’s just that…” Yachi gives a pained smile. “I have terrible stage fright.”

 

“Oh,” Tadashi says. “But aren’t you, um…a figure skater?”

 

“I know,” Yachi moans.

 

Tadashi realizes that this poor girl lives in a constant spiral of fear and anxiety. He gently pats her arm. If the sports management industry is as bereft of empathy as Kei claims, this girl must have had a terrible time so far.

 

“Yachi-san, if you don’t want to do commercials,” Yamaguchi says quietly, “Tsukishima-san would never make you.”

 

Yachi brightens. “Really? But his commission—”

 

“I promise, Yachi,” Tadashi says. “We’ll write it in your contract. Tsukishima-san and I are running a different kind of operation, okay?”

 

Yachi looks uncertain. “What kind?”

 

“Here,” Yamaguchi says eagerly, and pulls the blue memo out of his bag. He has it committed practically to memory now, so he hands it to Yachi and says, “Page nine. Paragraph three.”

 

Yachi mouths the words in a half-whisper as she reads. “Before it is an industry, athletics is a celebration of our country. And if our athletics leagues are a celebration of our country, then that celebration should be something we, in clear conscience, can take pride in, the same way our athletes take pride in their own work...”

 

Tadashi feels himself starting to sweat, hearing Tsukki’s words from the mouth of another. He knows not everyone is going to believe in Tsukki the way that he does; this is only natural. Still, he’s nervous when Yachi stops reading aloud after a while and continues in her head, gnawing on her lip.

 

After what feels like forever, Yachi puts down the memo and folds her fingers together. “Are you sure Tsukishima-san wrote this?”

 

The tension bursts like a balloon; Tadashi laughs in relief. “Yes, I know. He doesn’t come across like the kind of guy, right?”

 

“Not at all,” Yachi says. She smiles. “I’ll join you guys.”

 

“You will?” Tadashi falls forward in his seat. He can’t believe he actually did it—he landed a client like a real agent. Of course, it wouldn’t have been possible without Tsukki’s memo, but that’s even better: in this moment he can’t imagine anything better than working together with Tsukki as an equal. A team.

 

“That’s fantastic!” he exclaims. “Here, let me—can I buy you a slice of pie or something? Another tea?”

 

“No thank you, Yamaguchi-san,” she says. “Like I said, I’ll join you guys. There’s one thing, though.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I’m not sure how to break my contract with Bepsi,” she says.

 

“We’ll help you!” Tadashi says, jumping up. “Of course—we would love to help you—it’s what you’re hiring us to do, after all.”

 

“Are you sure?” Yachi’s voice becomes serious and grown-up for a moment, so much that it sends a shiver down his spine. “It’s not good to burn bridges. It’s a lot for me to ask you to help me burn my own.”

 

Tadashi sighs. “I don’t think either Tsukki or I understand the meaning of that phrase, so please don’t worry about it.”

 

Yachi thinks for a moment. “Okay,” she says quietly. She looks up, suddenly alarmed. “Oh, but what about my SMN contracts?”

 

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” he promises.

 

***

 

Ennoshita Chikara is ready to quit show business.

 

He can handle the rain. The missing foot model doesn’t faze him, either. And anyone who can’t put up with long hours or tight deadlines isn’t cut out to be a director.

 

No, those things are not the reason— _reasons_ —he’s just about ready to take up a desk job. Said reasons include, in their entirety, the two professional athletes he has come to understand he was tricked into hiring.

 

First of all, Hinata and Kageyama have an atmosphere about them. Ennoshita is well-acquainted with the fine line between ardent and murderous; he used to work on soaps. Second, he really only needed one athlete for the shoot, but their agent, Tsukishima-san, insisted that they were a package deal and could be treated as one unit.

 

“Even in terms of financial compensation?” Ennoshita had asked doubtfully.

 

“Yes, even in that regard,” Tsukishima had promised.

 

At this point, though, Ennoshita would gladly pay in full to get them to _leave_.

 

Anyway, yeah—it’s their atmosphere that’s really the problem. He tries to shoot them separately, but it’s kind of confusing, since the commercial is supposed to be about a volleyball player who tries to play only in socks. He’s supposed to nail an amazing spike, slip and fall, and then the narrator comes in and deadpans, “The new Leo Athletic sock. You still need sneakers.”

 

Ennoshita tries scratching the voiceover—he’ll have Kageyama toss to Hinata, Hinata fall, and then Kageyama can say the part about needing sneakers. Except every time Kageyama tries to act, he doesn’t come across deadpan—he just sounds genuinely pissed off.

 

Hinata is a problem, too, because he insists he doesn’t need a stunt double. Ennoshita agrees to this, at first, because it would be a pain in the ass to find a wig resembling Hinata’s fluffy orange hair. But after three takes Ennoshita realizes that Hinata isn’t doing him a favor. He is not brave; he’s stupid, and he’s absolutely going to hurt himself.

 

This was hours ago.

 

“Narita,” Ennoshita says to his cameraman. “Stop filming for a minute, would you?”

 

“Sure,” Narita says. Ennoshita looks calm, sure, but Narita’s learned not to be fooled by this—he’s about to blow a fuse in a major way. “Can I, um…get you anything?”

 

“Go find me a new professionally ranked athlete,” he says. “And some kind of blunt weapon. I’m sure you can pick those up at Lawson.”

 

Narita sighs. “I’ll see if they have any strawberry doughnuts, boss.”

 

Ennoshita spies Tsukishima-san, who is fuming across the gym. On one hand, Ennoshita feels for their manager. If ten hours working with these guys has him questioning his life choices, he can’t imagine what being their official wrangler is like.

 

On the other hand, idiot-wrangling is this guy’s job as much as directing commercials is his, and Tsukishima-san’s inability to do the one is preventing the other.

 

He steps over to Tsukishima.

 

“Hey,” Ennoshita says. “What is it going to take for you to keep your kids under control? This is getting ridiculous. My crew is exhausted, we’re overtime clearing set, and we have nothing to show for it.” He gestures at them, wrestling each other way too close to a big expensive camera. “You really think another pep talk is gonna fix _that_?”

 

Kei glares at him. He’s a smart guy; he can tell as well as anyone that Ennoshita’s more pissed than he’s letting on. Over Ennoshita’s shoulder, Hinata and Kageyama take a recess from fighting and stare in his direction, expectant, waiting to see if their manager will stand up for them, or whether he’ll throw them under the bus.

 

Kei feels the familiar, fake smile crawling across his face.

 

“Shit,” Hinata whispers to Kageyama, who has loosened his grip on Hinata’s hair. “That smile’s almost as scary as yours—ow ow ow! Lay off my skull for five minutes, will you?!”

 

“You’re a creative type, Ennoshita-san,” Kei says. “You’ve got plenty of footage of two of the greatest volleyball players in Japan. I’m sure you can make something work.” He brushes past. “As for my clients, we’re done here. Come on Hinata, Kageyama. Let’s go.”

 

“Why’d you beg me to take them, then?!” Ennoshita snaps as they exit, and Kei flinches, because there’s no way that Hinata and Kageyama didn’t hear that.

 

The volleyball jerks don’t seem mad, though, at least not any more than usual. They climb into the car wordlessly, and as Kei opens his mouth to lecture them _somehow_ , he finds he’s at a loss. He just destroyed another professional relationship, but was it the wrong thing to do, protecting his clients’ feelings?

 

So, okay. He can let go of the whole commercial catastrophe. For now.

 

Besides, there’s something on his mind.

 

“Am I your…friend?” Kei asks them.

 

“Sure, I guess,” Hinata says. “It’s really obvious you’re mad at us all the time, though.”

 

“Yeah,” Kageyama agrees. “Were you always like this with us at SMN, or did you just get worse at pretending?”

 

Kei sighs. He’s not sure of the answer to that, and it’s also not the conversation he’s trying to have. He asks, “What do you guys know about dating single parents?”

 

Hinata looks a little surprised, but not particularly put off. “Well, nothing really. Tobio and I have been together since high school.” He thinks for a moment. “Oh, but you were raised just by your mom, Tobio.”

 

Kageyama nods.

 

Kei grits his teeth and asks, “So?”

 

Kageyama furrows his brow, as if that will actually help him muster any more brain power than usual. “First of all, single parents don’t _date_. Their kids come first.”

 

“Of course,” Kei says. “That doesn’t bother me.”

 

Kageyama nods. “Okay. Second of all: do you love him?”

 

“Yaku?” Kei asks. “I don’t know what it really means to be a dad or anything, but…yes, I think.”

 

“Not Yaku,” Kageyama says. Hinata bursts out laughing. Kei tries to wither him with a glare, but lately his laser eyes seem to have broken, or something. “Do you love Yamaguchi-san?”

 

“I don’t want to be with anyone else,” Kei says honestly.

 

“That’s not what I asked,” Kageyama says.

 

“Shut up,” Kei says. “I didn’t say I _can’t_ love him—I just—how can you even _know_?”

 

“It’s a problem if you have to ask,” Kageyama says. There is a seriousness in his voice that Kei has only ever heard in discussions related to volleyball. “Don’t make excuses, Tsukishima. Not when it comes to the people who matter to you.”

 

Kei frowns, turning on the car. He looks at the road; this conversation is going to be easier without eye contact. “I never pretended to be good at…relationships. Or feelings, or whatever.”

 

“Fine.” Kageyama sighs. “You know you love someone when you can’t imagine a single day of the rest of your life without them. Or when you picture yourself as old and wrinkled and you picture _them_ as old and wrinkled and you can’t imagine it any other way. Does that help?”

 

“Tobio,” Hinata says, and _ew_ , that is not just _love_ in his voice. Kageyama stares back at him, and for a moment, Kei thinks to himself _if they get it on in the rental car I am going to drive it straight into a ravine._

 

Kei decides the best move is to interrupt them: “I can’t even imagine next _week_ , let alone the rest of my life. Everything is…really complicated right now.”

 

“Then you need to talk to him,” Kageyama says.

 

Kei clicks his tongue. “And say what? I might be planning on falling in love with you sometime in the next ten years or so, so please put your life on hold for that? Also, your paycheck is cancelled, thanks to some impulsive volleyball assholes ruining a commercial?”

 

Kageyama ignores this. “Well, don’t jerk him around, obviously! He’s a parent. Don’t just be another asshole who gets his hopes up when he obviously wants so much more from you, you withholding jerk!”

 

Kei’s eyes widen. He is used to being insulted. He is not used to it being anything he hasn’t already come up with himself.

“Tobio,” Hinata says. “That was amazing.”

 

“Wait,” Kei says, pulling over suddenly. Kageyama and Hinata break their staring match. “If there is any danger of you idiots being absolutely repulsive with each other right now, then one of you needs to drive the car.”

 

***

 

After his success with Yachi-san, Tadashi can’t wait for Tsukki to get back from the shoot.

 

“Hi, dad,” Yaku says from the couch, where he is concentrating on drawing something intricate on Asahi’s hands with a Magic Marker.

 

“I missed you, Yaku,” Tadashi says, ruffling his son’s hair. He looks at Asahi’s hands quizzically. “Are those schematics?”

 

“For a spaceship,” Asahi clarifies. “Keiji had to run to work.”

 

Tadashi smiles. “Well, then you can join us for dinner, at least,” he says. “I’m no Asahi Azumane, but I did pick up an unholy amount of grilled mackerel at the supermarket on my way back.”

 

Asahi smiles. “Were you up to anything interesting today?” he asks.

 

“I don’t like to talk business in front of Yaku,” he says, setting the groceries on the counter. “Did Tsukki call the house phone today?”

 

“He did,” Asahi says. “He said he’s coming over after he drops off Hinata and Kageyama.”

 

“Perfect,” Tadashi says. Yaku situates himself at the counter and continues his spaceship construction plans all over yesterday’s crossword. “You’re not too tired to wait, are you, Yaku?”

 

Yaku shakes his head. Tadashi squeezes his shoulders. “Set the table with me, buddy.”

 

When Tsukki arrives Tadashi feels his stomach flip. He looks exhausted, his tie loose and sleeves rolled up, probably as ready to sit down and eat dinner as Tadashi is—after a long day of _both_ of them doing something critical for the sake of their company. Yaku gives Tsukki a hug and sits down at the table next to Asahi, and it’s the closest Tadashi has felt to _domestic_ since Ichirou was alive, only better. Things had been always shaky with him and Ichirou, even shakier than with him and Tsukki—they had gotten married straight out of high school without their parents’ approval, they’d never managed to be employed at the same time, then Yaku came along, and then Ichirou’s medical bills—

 

Tadashi feels as if a calm he has been chasing for years has finally settled around his shoulders, like a soft blanket, like Tsukki’s hands on his shoulders when they’re at the computer.

 

“Hey,” Kei says to him, privately. “There are some things we need to discuss.”

 

“We do,” he says, thinking of Yachi. “But first we eat dinner.”

 

A smile twitches on Kei’s lips. “Dinner.”

 

So the four of them eat. Yaku shares stories about an ongoing game of pretend with Lev. Tadashi prods Asahi into recounting embarrassing moments from back when they first met each other; Asahi had been a kids’ swim instructor then. Kei doesn’t say much, has trouble doing more than poking at his food, but he grabs Tadashi’s hand under the table. Yaku scolds Kei for not eating his vegetables and Tadashi nearly cries laughing as Kei makes a point of eating the smallest piece of broccoli on his plate.

 

“Come on, Tsukki,” Tadashi teases. “Don’t you want to grow up to be strong and tall?”

 

“If I get any taller I won’t fit through the front door.”

 

“I don’t want to get any taller,” Yaku says. “Not like that dummy Lev.”

 

After dinner, Asahi puts Yaku to bed and excuses himself; he has a forty-minute drive back to his apartment in Sendai. He offers Kei a ride, but he and Tadashi still have business stuff to talk about.

 

They opt for the couch instead of the basement office.

 

Tadashi smiles big when he settles on the couch, elbow propped on the back, staring at Kei intently.

 

“What?” Kei asks.

 

“Remember the first time we sat on this couch?” he asks, and reaches out to touch Kei’s face, right where his black eye had been. Kei pulls Tadashi’s hand from his face and takes it in his own.

 

“Listen, Yamaguchi. The commercial…” He trails off. “It didn’t work out. I’m sorry. I think that…”

 

Tadashi freezes. “You think what?”

 

Tsukki looks away. “You were right, you know. About being an accountant. I’m not saying it’s the only job you’re capable of, but it’s your career, and you deserve something to…account for. And Yaku deserves more. So I’ve been thinking that maybe you should look for other work.”

 

“Oh,” Tadashi says.

 

Then he remembers Yachi.

 

“It’s okay, Tsukki! It’s okay, I got us another client! I talked to her today and she’s ready to sign the papers and everything—”

 

“You…what?” Kei asks. He looks totally taken aback, and for a second Tadashi is worried he’s mad, because it’s so hard to tell what Kei actually wants most of the time, but then he realizes that Kei is _sad_.

 

Their hands have fallen limp to the couch but there’s barely any pressure, as if they’ve forgotten their fingers are intertwined. He continues, softly, the unevenness in his voice betraying him once again: “Yachi Hitoka. The figure skater, former Junior Olympics gold medalist. She’ll be a full-fledged Olympic skater next time around.”

 

“I know,” Kei replies. He looks horrified. And guilty. Tadashi panics; none of this makes any sense at all.

 

Tadashi takes another breath and continues. “She wants to break her contracts with Bepsi and SMN. She doesn’t want to do commercials or anything like that which—I know she won’t bring in a _lot_ of money, but it’s better than nothing, better to build our client base, she can connect us with other young figure skaters— _mmf_!”

 

Kei kissing him catches him completely off-guard. It’s sudden, and desperate. Tadashi feels his heart melting and aching at the same time, and he doesn’t like any of it.

 

“I told you I had things under control,” Kei says, breath warm on Tadashi’s face. “But I was wrong. There is nothing I can do to repay you, except to beg you to get another job. Please, Yamaguchi.”

 

“I don’t want to,” Tadashi whimpers.

 

“Then you’re fired,” Kei says.

 

Oh, none of this is going the way Tadashi had imagined.

 

“Please _,_ Tsukki—you know I don’t care about money, I know we can figure it out—”

 

“That’s the problem,” Kei snaps. “You don’t have a choice but to care. Jesus, stop letting me drag you down.” _I sure as hell don’t deserve it_ , he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to voice it; he knows Tadashi would just protest.

 

“We needed the commercial. The Asian Games start next month, there’s no time to find another sponsor before then.”

 

“Tsukki,” Tadashi protests.

 

“Find another job. Let me take care of the shitty stuff on my own for a while. You know I’ll hire you back as soon as I can, but…I’m cutting you loose. I’ll let you go permanently, if that’s what turns out to be for the best.”

 

Kei tries to stand, but Tadashi springs forward, wrapping him in a rib-crushing hug. Kei can’t meet his gaze. Surely this is the right thing to do; that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It hurts a lot.

 

As Kei leaves, he thinks about Yaku asleep in his room, about the dinosaur lamp he was thinking of getting him for his birthday. He wonders if he can mail him a present—if Akaashi might just throw out the package. Akaashi had just started talking to him like a normal human being, too.

 

As he drives away, Kei debates whether or not he just fucked up. The whole situation was already fucked; he had just thought it wasn’t possible to make it any worse. And just because it hurts, firing Yamaguchi, it doesn’t mean he was wrong, does it?

 

God knows doing the right thing almost never feels good. If Kei still knows anything, it’s this.

 

***

 

The Hinata-Kageyamas have offered Noya space in their moving truck, which is great, because Noya may have gone overboard buying a round of drinks for everyone in his favorite bar earlier this week and calling it a goodbye party.

 

He kind of regrets this impromptu goodbye party. Noya, self-proclaimed social butterfly, champion of having a good attitude, immune to hopeless existential feelings, had felt oddly alone the whole night. Even though he had gotten to say a proper goodbye to most of his friends, even though he got hit on by more than one objectively very hot person—the kind he’d usually jump on without a second thought—he hadn’t really been in the mood.

 

Okay, so he’s not willing to relinquish his title as the champion of good attitudes just yet—but yeah, moving kind of sucks.

 

At least things are looking good in Tokyo. Noya had been kind of worried at first; apartments are twice as expensive down there, and he knows almost no one in the city. But Hinata and Kageyama had found a big place with extra bedrooms, and they offered to make him a live-in nanny; the national team clearly pays better than the Sunbirds. Noya is going to get to live in one of the most interesting cities in the world, get to keep taking care of light-of-his-life Lev, get to travel with the family for international games. Not bad for a professional babysitter in his twenties.

 

Noya rolls his shoulders as he climbs into bed. His muscles ache. Loading the truck took hours, and even with the combined efforts of two athletes and, he as he likes to advertise himself, the strongest nanny in Sendai—moving furniture sucks.

 

Still, hard labor had always tended to make Noya _more_ energetic; he thinks he will never get used to the largely sessile lifestyle that adulthood entails. His fingers drum on the mattress, and he points his legs to the ceiling, seeing how far he can stretch them.

 

Noya pulls his cell phone from the charger and texts Asahi. Of _course_ he felt weird about all the goodbyes—he hasn’t even gotten to say one to his new best friend! Asahi had meant to bring Yaku over for a playdate this week, but his family was moving too—to _Gifu_ of all places—leaving Asahi behind in Sendai.

 

It’s weird how fast things can change, Noya thinks to himself. He has never minded a change of pace in the past. But so much happening at once feels a whole lot like loss.

 

Where was he? Oh yeah, texting Asahi.

 

_moving tomorrow. im driving the truck!_

It’s late. He worries Asahi won’t respond, but he does, after a minute.

_yaku and yamaguchi too._

_shouldn’t you sleep then, Noya-san?_

Noya texts him that _sleep is for the weak!!!_

_you should drink some green tea_

_sure,_ Noya types back, though it’s not exactly an invitation. _meet me at the lawson on nishidoori?_

 

There’s a pause, and Noya worries he’s overstepped his bounds again, because he’s always doing that. But then Asahi texts back _okay_ and Noya’s confidence bounces back to full. It’s a lot of fun being a demanding, over-the-top jerk; he thinks more people should try it. Everyone would get a lot more dates that way.

 

***

 

It’s forty minutes later and Noya is kissing Asahi in front of a convenience store in the middle of the night and he’s not even _drunk_. He’s smiling, way too big to be kissing properly, because if he didn’t know any better he could swear it was Asahi who leaned in first. Then Asahi kisses the grin off his face, and Noya hears his breath hitch from somewhere far away. That Asahi was hot had been obvious to Noya since he first laid eyes on him; that he was a good kisser was something he had actually not predicted. Not that this had made Noya want to kiss him any _less_ , but—

 

“Mmf! Air! Air, Asahi-san!” Noya gasps, pushing him away.

 

“I’m so sorry!” Asahi says.

 

“What for?” Noya coughs. “For trying to suffocate me?” Noya glances around and begins yelling, “MURDERER! HELP!”

 

Asahi is forced to shut him up with another kiss, focused, more intense, arms squeezing Noya around his waist. They stand for a long time like this, not really doing anything, unless you count getting strange looks. Noya can’t blame them; they’re hovering obnoxiously close outside the Lawson, and Asahi’s in pajama pants that are way too cute for a guy over six feet.

 

“No, not for that,” Asahi says, when he breaks away from Noya at last. His face is bright pink. Noya grins; maybe the guy still has _something_ to learn. Which is to say something that Noya, who considers himself something of an expert on kissing, to teach him. “I shouldn’t have—it’s not fair to you, after I rejected you—”

 

“It’s okay.” Noya laughs. “We’re never gonna see each other again after this, Asahi-san.”

 

“Aren’t we?” Asahi says. “When you come back to see family on holidays and stuff?”

 

“Asahi-san, are you asking to be my Sendai booty call?” Noya asks, poking his fingers into Asahi’s sides. Asahi twitches, apparently ticklish, but he doesn’t laugh.

 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I’m not good at booty calls. I’ll just end up waiting around for you.”

 

“I’ll make it worth it,” Noya promises, pressing a kiss onto the slope of Asahi’s nose, and _okay_ , maybe it’s a little too affectionate for a thanks-for-the-future-hookups kiss. He pulls away and balls his fists in his sweatshirt pockets to prevent any further handsy-ness on his part.

 

“See you around, Asahi-san,” Noya says. He takes a deep breath. He has a feeling this is going to be a long walk home, and that he’d better get going before—

 

“Noya?” Asahi says from behind him. The dropped honorific makes Noya’s hair stand on end, and he whips around to see Asahi with his hands clasped together, eyes glued to the sidewalk.

 

“Yes, Asahi-san?” he says. His voice sounds ridiculous, like he’s just run a marathon—well, no, this is Noya; make that two marathons.

 

“I can give you a ride,” Asahi says.

 

Noya wants to slap himself on the forehead. He had gotten his hopes up for a second—for what, exactly? “It’s out of the way,” he says.

 

Asahi grimaces. “I mean…I can give you a ride…to my house…” The last words are barely audible, and Noya worries that Asahi might be the first person in the history of the world to die, literally, of embarrassment. “I can give you a ride back in the morning— _oof_!”

 

Noya throws himself onto Asahi, clinging to his much burlier frame. “I would like that very much, Asahi-san. Very much.”

 

 _But first,_ Noya thinks. _I am 100% going to make out with you in your car for twenty minutes._

 

“Oh. Really?” Asahi says. “Well. Good.”

 

Noya laughs. “Good? Oh, Asahi, you have no idea what you’re in for.”

 

“Noya?” Asahi asks nervously. Noya just laughs louder, not caring if he sounds kind of evil. Asahi will forgive him.

 

***

 

A few months ago, after getting cursed out by a twelve-year-old kid in a hospital, Kei had thought he had hit bottom.

 

That wasn’t bottom. He’d thought it come again, a couple of weeks later, when he was fired. And for a while this had seemed to be true: his feet had brushed the sand of a cold, murky ocean, and now it was time to start swimming up.

 

This right now feels worse than either of those things. At least now he knows better than to call it “bottom”. Things can always get worse; this is not a lesson the cynical Tsukishima Kei ever thought he would need taught to him.

 

Yaku won’t say a word to him, and why should he? He’s the one who convinced his dad quit his job in the first place, strung him around for months, and _fired_ him. Yaku is losing his house and his school and his friends, and it is all Kei’s fault.

 

And it’s not just Tadashi he’s put out of a job, either—it’s Asahi, whom he suspects has no skills other than working with kids. Which isn’t an easy line of work to be in when you refuse to shave your beard.

 

Then there’s Akaashi, whom Kei has—thank fucking god—not had to see since he fired Tadashi. He just hopes Akaashi isn’t lording it over his brother that he was right the whole time about what a shitty guy Kei turned out to be.

 

Kei pulls out his phone and texts Akiteru: _I’m lucky to have you as a brother_.

 

_??!?! kei i knew you cared!!! but why???_

Kei snorts. _Because if you hadn’t already disgraced the Tsukishima name in the sports industry I probably would have given up by now._

_mean!!!! youre mean as ever kei!!!! are you sure you even meant any of that memo you wrote_ 凸(｀△´＃)

 

Ouch. But fair. Kei chooses not to text back; he has promised he would help Tadashi load the truck; he needs the extra pair of hands.

 

The conversation isn’t malicious at Tadashi’s house, but it is terse. Akaashi doesn’t say a word to him, which is probably best-case. Asahi seems as polite as ever, and, actually, strangely giddy for an imminently unemployed man at 6:00 on a Saturday morning—there’s a chance he doesn’t blame Kei, since the web of events and relationships is pretty fucked up as it is, but Kei tries to communicate telepathically that Asahi absolutely _should_ blame him.

 

It only takes about eighty minutes to fit all of the boxes onto the truck. Tadashi stands and stares at it with his hands on his hips. It’s funny to see his life packed away into such neat and obvious compartments. It seems simple, that way—like things aren’t nearly as messed up as they are.

 

“Hey,” Kei says to him. “I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Tadashi says. He turns away from the truck. “But it’s okay, too, you know, if you can’t.”

 

“What do you mean?” Kei asks.

 

“Don’t waste your life,” Tadashi says. Kei knows what he means: _Don’t waste your life waiting for me_. It pisses Kei off so much he can’t help but wrinkle his nose in disgust, but Tadashi presses on: “If you can’t make it this weekend, or even this month—or ever—you have a lot going on for you Tsukki, even if you can’t see it.”

 

“Okay,” Kei says quietly. It’s not what he wants to say, but—he’s not sure, yet—

 

“And quit blaming yourself! It’s pathetic!” Tadashi snaps. Kei glances up at him. This is the first time he’s ever seen Tadashi like this, his brows drawn together, his mouth twisted down in a frown. _Oh_ , he realizes, _he’s angry._

Well, good.

 

“Take care of yourself, Yamaguchi,” Kei manages. “And take care of Yaku. And—if he ever forgives me, tell him he can give me a call anytime.”

 

“Okay.” Yamaguchi smiles. “Goodbye, Tsukki. We have a long drive ahead—can you imagine ten hours from now we’ll be in Gifu? Life is weird.”

 

“Give me a call when you hit a rest stop,” Kei says. His heart pounds in his chest so hard he thinks he should maybe ask for a ride to the hospital. He has never really cared about goodbyes before—but—maybe there’s never been one _worth_ caring about, maybe doing the right thing _shouldn’t_ hurt, maybe—

 

“Or,” Kei says, at last.

 

Tadashi looks at him cautiously. The unreasonable train of thought running through Kei’s head jumps the tracks, all he can think about is Tadashi’s freckles and the way he is squinting in the early morning bright—

 

“Or?” Tadashi asks desperately.

 

“Or we could do this thing for real.” Kei lets the air spill out of his lungs slowly, trying to collect all of the words he needs not to mess this up. “There’s another way we can save the company—save ourselves. Save Yaku. And Asahi. We can save on housing, and medical, and we can _live_ like real, actual, normal people do.” He looks at the grass. “You deserve it, all of you.”

 

“Don’t say things unless you mean them, Tsukki,” Tadashi says.

 

“I do mean it,” Kei says, and he grabs Tadashi’s hand, twining their fingers together.

 

“ _Don’t_ say it,” says Tadashi. “Oh my god. If you say that, I’ll…”

 

“Yamaguchi—Tadashi. Let’s get married.”

 

“You…want to marry me?”

 

“Yes,” Kei says. “I—want to marry you.”

 

Tadashi sits down, right there on the grass. Kei kneels next to him awkwardly, their fingers still twisted together. He looks at Tadashi with the same expression he wore the night they left SMN—eyes intense, wide, nervous as hell.

 

“Tadashi,” he says again. “Will you—”

 

“Yes!” Tadashi exclaims, tugging Kei completely off balance. He kisses him, and it’s different, again, from their first kiss on the couch, from the one under the moth-swarmed lamp of his front steps—and it makes sense, maybe, because today is unlike any other day Tadashi has ever had in his life. Five minutes ago his day looked like a ten-hour drive to Gifu, which would be followed by—what? A new accounting job? His kid trying to fit in at another school? He hasn’t wanted for a second to peel himself from this weird-as-hell, big, complicated thing he and Kei have made for themselves.

 

“Dad?” Yaku calls from his booster seat. “Can we go now?”

 

“Change of plans, buddy,” Tadashi says. “We’re not going anywhere.”

 

From the living room window, Akaashi watches as his brother starts removing boxes from the back of the truck.

 

“Oh god fucking dammit,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, squinting at my laptop: is this how comedy works????
> 
> up next: a wedding, a wedding-related hookup, some volleyball, and, um. some stuff im not too proud of, sorry my guys


	6. hard pass on the pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding. Also, everyone has a hard time. Sorry.

They decide to have the wedding in the yard, and Tsukki apologizes about a hundred times before Tadashi learns that shut up kisses are pretty effective on him.

 

And so what if they can’t afford anything but the yard? Tadashi can’t imagine any place more romantic than the house where they first kissed, where they built a business together. Where they fell in love.

 

His confidence has been renewed, since Tsukki proposed.

 

Tsukki, on the other hand, apologizes constantly. Which Tadashi finds both strange and precious; he has never seen Tsukki apologize to anyone else. Tadashi knows he feels guilty about the unconventional proposal, about—as he has been saying for weeks—the way everything has worked out for them until now.Tsukki is as stressed out planning the wedding as he was getting Hinata and Kageyama onto the national team; it’s one part cute how seriously he takes everything and like six parts exhausting.

 

“Relax, Tsukki,” Tadashi had told him, not for the first time. “The details aren’t that important.”

 

“You deserve things to go well,” he’d snapped back.

 

“That’s not how life works,” Tadashi had replied, and he meant it. Tadashi knows there are many ways in which Tsukki is more experienced than he is, but this is one thing Tadashi understands: that _wanting_ things to be perfect and _expecting_ them to be are totally different things. Tadashi is not an idealist because his life has gone so smoothly; the opposite is true. Tadashi knows coping better than anyone.

 

Tsukki, apparently, does not know coping. He shuts down, he blows up—well, in that quiet way of his. But Tadashi would have never really gotten to know Tsukki if he hadn’t been fired from SMN, if they hadn’t been thrown into shark-infested waters together. Yaku wouldn’t have another dad again. So all the anxiety, all the frustration, the flowers and the cake and the bickering between his brother and his fiancé—none of it matters. More than anything, he just can’t wait to be married to Tsukki.

 

Tadashi puts himself in charge of the wedding announcement and keeps a copy in his wallet at all times, so when he feels like he’s going to die an early death from all the stress of running a company and planning a wedding on very short notice, he can take it out and sound out the words. Just saying them gives him chills: _Yamaguchi Tadashi and Tsukishima Kei to be married on August 26_. Like a secret that’s too fun and too good to keep from spilling out. He purposely sends Kiyoko her invitation to her mailbox at SMN; he hopes that word gets around. He hopes they all remember it when they see everything he and Tsukki make of themselves. Because they are going to succeed, as a family and a company.

 

Tadashi has always believed, not-so-secretly, in second chances, in things turning around, that storms rage and pass but sunshine is always waiting beyond them.

 

He had just been losing hope that his second chance would come any time soon.

 

He and Tsukki start working with Yachi, who, despite her stage fright, is a dream compared to Hinata and Kageyama. When she sees that their whole operation is run out of a basement, she can’t hide her surprise. Tadashi tries to reassure her that they really _are_ professionals, but Yachi shakes her head.

 

“You really meant what you wrote,” she says to Kei.

 

“Remind me to track down and burn every last copy of that godforsaken memo,” Kei says.

 

“No way, Tsukki,” Tadashi replies, and Kei makes a sour face.

 

Yachi is so grateful when they get her out of the second commercial with Bepsi that she agrees to do radio and local print ads as their client. Yamaguchi was serious when he promised her she never had to do that kind of endorsement ever again, but secretly he is relieved. Plus she promises to recommend Kei to the new crop of Junior Olympics skaters she teaches when she’s not practicing, and she even designs them new business cards as a thank you gift.

 

Working with Yachi lifts both their spirits; even though everything is slow-going, and even though they are too superstitious to say it aloud, it almost feels as if the worst has passed.

 

But between work and the wedding and Yaku going on summer break, Tadashi is so relieved he could cry when the day of his wedding finally arrives.

 

“Um, is it bad luck for me to see you?” Tadashi asks Kei, who is fixing his tie in their bedroom mirror. They have both opted for vests instead of suit jackets; there’s no reason to risk passing out in the summer heat. Kei’s is dark blue brocade; Tadashi has opted for purple, even though Kei pointed out that if they get black-and-white wedding pictures it will look like they match.

 

“I’m not your bride,” Kei says. “Neither of us is. That’s kind of the point.” He turns to him, sees Tadashi twiddling his thumbs and looking endearingly nervous. “You were right about the purple. It’s nice.”

 

Tadashi’s expression instantly brightens; he latches onto Kei with so much enthusiasm his knees nearly give out. “I’m really happy we’re getting married,” he mumbles into his shoulder.

 

Kei frowns. “Me too, you know.” Tadashi wraps his arms tighter, trying to squeeze the nerves out of him, smiling goofily until Kei smiles back.

 

“Let’s go, then.”

 

Tadashi takes his hand as they exit the bedroom and make their way to the backyard.

 

***

 

Yaku was happy when he found out he wasn’t moving to Gifu after all, and even happier when he found out his dad was going to marry Tsukki. But Yaku is _not_ happy about all the wedding junk—the strangers in and out of his house, the kitchen table a mess of papers with no room to eat his cereal, getting fitted for his dress clothes, wearing oversized shoes his dad promises he’ll grow into.

 

The only reason he’s not totally grumpy about it is because Tsukki asked if he could adopt him.

 

“Okay,” Yaku had said. “Can I still call you Tsukki?”

 

Tsukki had looked a little funny when Yaku said this, like he was maybe going to cry even though Yaku was pretty sure he was happy. “Fine, but no bossing me around like I’m Asahi,” he’d said, giving Yaku a kiss on the head.

 

Grown-ups are weird. This is something his classmates still don’t seem to get, and it makes Yaku feel pretty smart, knowing this.

 

This was a couple of weeks ago. Now it’s the day of the wedding, and Yaku has been given a very important job: carrying in the rings. He enlists Lev’s help the morning before the ceremony. Lev has come back from Tokyo with his dads and Noya for the weekend, and the two of them have been told to play in his room, which Yaku knows is grown-up code for “stay out of the way”.

 

The rings are in a box in the kitchen, of course, so Yaku practices with Legos instead. Lev tries to boss him around about the way he walks down the aisle (a few bathroom towels thrown on the carpet) and his posture as stands at the altar (the step stool Yaku uses to climb into bed).

 

“You’re not very fun to watch, Yaku,” Lev tells him. “Everyone’s gonna fall asleep when it’s your turn.”

 

“Shut up,” Yaku says. “Just say the lines.”

 

Lev does, with as much drama as he can muster. “The _rings_ , please!” Yaku lifts the pillow up over his head, careful not to drop the Legos. He would never admit it, but Lev being a tall jerk actually comes in handy when he can keep an eye on the placeholder rings, warning Yaku when he’s tilting the pillow too much to one side.

 

“I wish I got to see _my_ dads’ wedding,” Lev says. “It’s not fair. Just ‘cause they couldn’t adopt me ‘til they got married.”

 

“But you were a baby,” Yaku points out.

 

“I still could have done it,” he exclaims. He grabs the rings from Yaku and their practice session devolves into a game of keep-away, which, of course, ends in tears.

 

The ceremony, as it turns out, is long and boring. Yaku can hardly pay attention to what the officiant is talking about. The audience laughs when Yaku interrupts the rambling speech to ask his dad if he’s okay—“Why are you crying, Dad?”—and he tries to give them the rings too early a couple of times, but otherwise it all goes smoothly.

 

“Ew,” he says, when his dad and Tsukki kiss, and people laugh again. He wouldn’t have handed them the rings if he knew they were going to do _that._

 

***

 

Kei feels immense relief once the reception is under way. After weeks of uncertainty, everything has finally fallen into place: the rented tent and tables, the delicately frosted cake with strawberry filling, a local jazz band performing old standards by the altar. In their first dance neither he nor Tadashi steps on the other’s toes. The day is warm but not hot; the flowers Akaashi cares for in his limited spare time all point their faces toward the sun. Major catastrophes are generally avoided. This, Kei thinks, is an objectively good wedding.

 

He stands on the back porch, watching people enjoy themselves. Akiteru sidles up to him, clinking his clear plastic cup to Kei’s. He gestures to the partygoers. “Where are your friends?” he asks.

 

Kei glares. “In the band.”

 

It’s not untrue—Kageyama and Hinata have taken over the vocals, fumbling the microphone back and forth as they stumble their way through a duet. They’re _bad,_ of course, but there is something charming about their performance that makes everyone at the reception cling to their partners as they sway.

 

Akiteru nudges Kei and points at Tadashi dancing with Yaku on the grass. Yaku only comes up to his mid-thigh and looks nothing short of _miserable_ , especially when Lev bounds over and cuts in dramatically. One day he’s going to have to teach Yaku how to reject unwanted suitors, Kei thinks.

 

“I can tell he’s a really good guy,” Akiteru says. “Even though you barely let me talk to him. He’s sweet and he’s smart. He knows how to handle you. You’re lucky, Kei.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Kei mumbles. “Go dance with Saeko, why don’t you, and then you can come talk to me like you know anything about relationships.”

 

“Mean,” Akiteru says, ruffling his hair as if Tsukki doesn’t have two inches on him. He pauses. “You didn’t invite Mom and Dad,” he says.

 

“No,” he says. Having their son tell them he’s marrying a man is one thing; having them attend the actual wedding is another. He felt exposed when he had to tell Tadashi that he didn’t particularly keep in touch with his parents; it seemed unfair that he would choose not to speak with them when Tadashi’s parents weren’t even alive. But Tadashi hadn’t judged him for it—of course he hadn’t. Instead he’d smiled at Tsukki and told him _I think it’s time we both made a new family, isn’t it?_

 

Akiteru does take Tsukki’s suggestion; he excuses himself and finds Saeko for the next dance. Hinata and Kageyama fumble their way comically through a swing number.  Even the babysitters are dancing with each other, although the height disparity makes for an awkward sway. Eventually Tadashi spots Kei on the porch, smiles, and makes his way up the stairs.

 

Since they’ve finished cake and dinner, Tadashi has mostly been flitting from guest to guest thanking them for coming. They are mostly Tadashi’s guests, after all; Akiteru wasn’t incorrect in his accusation that he has basically no friends.

 

“Love bug’s catching, huh,” Tadashi says, nudging Kei. “Sorry for ditching you. I didn’t anticipate this many obligatory dancing. I hope you’re not jealous.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m a terrible dancer.” He touches Tadashi’s back and considers saying—something. He doesn’t figure out what in time, so when he opens his mouth instead he says, “I’m going to ask the caterers to wrap the rest of the cake. It can be breakfast in bed.”

 

“The perfect honeymoon!”

 

Kei blanches. “We’ll have a real honeymoon, of course—after the Asian Games, when the volleyball jerks get another deal—”

 

Tadashi laughs. “I know, I know, Tsukki! You’ve told me a hundred times. This is exactly how I would want things, anyway.”

 

Kei groans, leaning his head into Tadashi’s. “Thank you for marrying me,” he mumbles into his hair.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tadashi says. “Thank me tonight.”

 

When the cool night settles over the backyard, the leftover partygoers find their way into the living room, squeezing onto the couch in front of the TV. One of the doctors plugs his camera into the television and they watch the wedding video. Kei is mortified—he doesn’t need to experience the most public display of affection of his life all over again just yet—and he finds himself in the kitchen, alone with Akaashi, who is drinking wine and organizing leftovers in the refrigerator. They are still wary of each other, but if they’re going to be living together for the foreseeable future, Kei has resolved to at least be civil.

 

“Cheers,” he says to Akaashi, lifting his beer.

 

Akaashi smiles and raises his glass. “If you fuck this up, I’ll lobotomize you.”

 

“I didn’t think they taught that practice in med school anymore.”

 

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” Akaashi says, and leaves.

 

“Good talk,” Kei mutters to the empty kitchen.

 

There are only a few dishes left in the sink, so Kei washes them and wonders where he can hang out in the house without it seeming like he’s avoiding the video. In the hallway he bumps into Kageyama, who is trying to fix a picture frame he knocked over.

 

“Congratulations,” Kageyama says, straightening up. “On your wedding.”

 

“Congratulations on your singing abilities,” Kei responds. “Do they refuse you and Hinata private karaoke rooms?”

 

“Hey,” Kageyama says. He opens his mouth to say something, then frowns.

 

“What?” Kei asks.

 

“You didn’t have the _talk_ with him, did you,” Kageyama says.

 

“We’ve done plenty of talking,” Kei says. “Is everyone going to be on my case from now on?”

 

“Be careful, Tsukishima,” Kageyama says. Kei eyes him, trying to place his odd tone. “Marriage isn’t a joke.”

 

“I know that,” Kei says. “Trust me—I’m taking this more seriously than anyone.”

 

“I’ll say,” Hinata says from behind him, scaring the shit out of him. “You’ve been driving Yamaguchi nuts with all your apologizing and worrying, you know. Pretty lame, Tsukishima-san.”

 

“I have?” Kei asks. It must be bad if _Hinata_ is the one pointing it out to him. He sighs. “Fine. I can relax. It’ll be easier, now that the wedding is over.”

 

“Hmm, yeah,” Hinata agrees. “As long as you love each other, things are bound to work out one way or another.”

 

There is that word again: love. Kei has been trying not to think about it. Even Kageyama said so—you shouldn’t _have_ to think about it. If he says he loves Tadashi, then he loves Tadashi. And if someone asked him why, he could come up with an answer: because of the delicate way he snores in the grey light of morning, the way he nudges Yaku into doing the right thing, the way he always seems to know when it’s okay to touch him.

 

These are all things he loves about his husband.

 

He’ll shake his nervousness eventually. He has to.

 

After the video finishes playing and Akaashi kicks out a few lingering guests, Tadashi finally gets another moment alone with his spouse.

 

“Wow, weddings are really great,” he says, circling his fingers around Kei’s wrist. “Everyone’s so _nice_ to you when you get married. I haven’t felt this confident since I got Yachi to sign with us. We should do this more often.”

 

“Easy for you to say. Apparently everyone here is in love with you. They won’t stop talking about how great you are,” Kei grumbles. “If they all love you so much, why don’t _they_ marry you?”

 

Tadashi laughs. “Keiji got to you, huh?”

 

“Among others.”

 

“I’ll protect you,” Tadashi says, smiling. “Yaku will too.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Tadashi studies Kei’s face, the strange flush under the dim porch light. “Are you feeling okay, Tsukki?” he asks, placing the flat of his hand on his forehead.

 

Kei flinches. It’s imperceptible and only momentary, but Tadashi feels the twitch of his skin beneath his hand. He takes a deep breath.

 

“It’s been a long day, Tsukki. I’ll tell you what—I’ll say good night to Keiji, make sure Yaku is asleep…” He curls his index finger around the belt on Kei’s trousers. “And I’ll meet you inside.”

 

Kei blushes, and Tadashi’s heart balloons with relief. He nods and heads in, the screen door bouncing shut behind him, and Tadashi clutches at his chest. He feels, somewhere deep inside—beneath the elation of being _married_ to someone who is so much more wonderful than Ichirou ever was or would have been—something too burning-hot to the touch to identify. And it scares him.

 

But he has faced much scarier things. He reassures himself of this silently, as he says goodbye to the last couple of guests and finds Yaku curled up in his bed.

 

 _I can make this work_ , Tadashi thinks as he walks up behind his husband and buries his face in his back, smiling so big that Kei can feel it through the fabric of his dress shirt.

 

 _I can make this work,_ he thinks as he whispers _Tsukki_ between kisses, not leaving a second for him to get a word in edgewise.

 

 _I can make this work_ , he thinks as he kisses Kei on his forehead and face and jaw, fingers splayed across his shoulders, trying to make Kei understand how much he is loved, that Tadashi’s love is more than enough for two people. Because if Tadashi has learned anything as a 26-year-old widower, it’s that sometimes what’s good enough on paper can become good enough in real life, if you just try.

 

***

 

“Asahi-san, is it okay if I use this?”

 

Noya stands in the doorway to Asahi’s room, hand on one hip, a day-old, egg-crusted frying pan in the other. Asahi shoots up and instinctively pulls the sheets around his bare shoulders. It still surprises him what an early riser Noya is, given how hard he goes at parties—is it possible for someone so small to be a tank?

 

The image of Noya up and ready this early in the morning doesn’t suit him.

 

But then again, Asahi thinks, maybe it does.

 

“Sure,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep and alcohol. He coughs. “Let me wash it first, though, I left in a rush for the wedding yesterday morning and everything…”

 

“No need, Asahi-san, I’ll take care of it.” Noya grins. “I’m making pancakes.”

 

“Pancakes? I don’t have mix.”

 

“I know that. I checked. I already went to the grocery store and picked some up, plus some chocolate chips, plus some new bananas, because yours were really old…”

 

Asahi listens to Noya describe his early morning with unsurprising enthusiasm, and smiles to himself. Waking up with the sun every day of his life, even with a probable post-wedding hangover—that’s a bit confusing. But chocolate chip pancakes he can certainly reconcile with his image of Nishinoya Yuu.

 

“I hope Kageyama and Hinata aren’t looking for me,” Noya says between bites of blackened pancake. They have agreed that in the future breakfast should be left to Asahi, who managed to salvage the last of the batter and even give Noya a few pointers—add more margarine in the pan every few pancakes, keep the heat low, don’t try to flip them until a few bubbles have formed. But those few edible pancakes disappeared pretty quickly, and Noya seems undeterred by the charred exterior of his own attempts, now shoving bitefuls into his mouth with gusto.

 

“They told me they’d take Lev back with them after the party, but they were pretty drunk, so I’m not sure they’ll remember.” Noya takes a sip from his empty glass; Asahi notices and pours some more orange juice for him. “Our flight is this afternoon though, so I should probably go soon.”

 

“When will I see you again?” Asahi asks.

 

“Hmmm,” Noya says. “Well, they’ve got practice in Tokyo pretty hardcore until the first round of the Asian Games, and after that it’s straight to Incheon for the initial matches…” He looks thoughtful, but shrugs. “I don’t know, Asahi-san.”

 

Asahi smiles. “I thought that might be the case,” he says.

 

Noya shrugs on his rumpled blazer—he didn’t bring a change of clothes after the party—and kisses Asahi goodbye. “Are you gonna miss me?” he whispers in Asahi’s ear.

 

He hums, avoiding a real response. “I’ll see you whenever, Noya.”

 

Noya smiles. “Whenever, Asahi-san!” He reaches for the door handle without breaking eye contact. “It’s a promise.”

 

“Oh, and next time?” Asahi says.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“No breakfast.”

 

Noya’s face falls a little—not so much that Asahi feels completely guilty, but enough that he’s sure his meaning came across. Maybe Noya can toe the line between lust and affection, but for Asahi, it’s messy.

 

For a moment after he shuts the door, Asahi feels petty. Certainly an open relationship with Noya could lead to that—it’d mostly consist of Noya taking strangers home whenever he pleases and Asahi waiting around, maybe going on a few coffee dates, maybe flirting at the pool. But Asahi understands, too, that it’s not about Noya hooking up with other people more often than Asahi would—it’s about Noya hooking up with other people. Full stop. Which is _yikes_.

 

If Noya blurs the line any further, Asahi won’t be able to act casual about it, and he’ll get hurt.

 

He’ll take the hookups, just not the pancakes.

 

It’s safer that way.

 

***

 

For someone who flies at least twice a month, Hinata is still way too excited about planes. As soon as the flight attendant passes, he twists out of his seatbelt and crouches on his knees, squashing his face up against the window.

 

“That’s unsanitary,” Kageyama snaps, forcing his head down before the steward can notice his husband’s flagrant rule-breaking. “Put your seatbelt back on.”

 

Many things endear Kageyama to Hinata. This is not one of them. They’re sitting with the whole national team, for god’s sake—they’re the _rookies_. Sure, practice has been going pretty well; they started way out in the reserves, but little by little they’ve been proving themselves to Captain Sawamura. There’s a chance he’ll use them in the game against Taiwan, whose flexible defensive capabilities they haven’t been able to crack in years. Plus Kageyama has been making an effort to practice with every spiker on the team, and as far as he can tell, nobody completely hates him.

 

So if Hinata gets them thrown off the plane before they’re even halfway out of Haneda International, he’s going to quit volleyball, build a time machine, and punch himself in the face for marrying such a complete and total idiot.

 

Hinata smiles sweetly when Kageyama tells him this. “You sure do love me,” he teases, as if they’re back in high school and Hinata wasn’t the one who kissed him in the first place.

 

“I know,” he grumbles. “That’s the problem, you dunce.”

 

“Nice insult. Pick it up from Lev?”

 

“Shut it.”

 

Tsukishima glares at them from the opposite aisle, leaning past a long row of passengers who have begun to stare. The plane they’re taking is enormous—it had to be to squeeze twenty-odd players, their coaches, their PTs, and their agents all in first class. The Asian Games are the biggest deal of the season, especially in years just prior to the summer Olympics. They’re the Olympic funnel, basically—sure, national team players have the best chance, but the team is smaller, and includes a mix of regional and sometimes college-level athletes, as well.

 

But neither Tsukishima nor Kageyama’s attitude is enough to sour Hinata’s for long. He gets excited all over again when they see their hotel room in Incheon, flopping on one enormous fluffy bed and arching his back in a stretch. Kageyama frowns; Hinata is cute, and it pisses him off, even now. Hinata flips over on his stomach and points to a second bed in the room, laughing.

 

“Hey, Tobio, get a load of that.”

 

Kageyama furrows his brow. “Takeda-san knows we’re married, right?”

 

“I thought everyone did.” Hinata grins impishly. “I’ll make sure of it tomorrow, anyway.”

 

Kageyama glares at him, but his expression is always a little soft when he’s looking at his husband. He sits on the bed next to him and touches his hair. Hinata curls against him like a cat.

 

“Do you think Daichi-san is going to let us play?” Hinata asks.

 

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

 

“Me too. I want you to toss to me here, too. Like you promised in high school.”

 

Kageyama sighs and lays back, pulling his hand away from Hinata’s hair. Hinata whines, but is too exhausted to chase him. It’s late, after all, and they’re sluggish from a day without practice.

 

“When do Noya and Lev land?” Hinata asks.

 

“Their flight’s due in an hour. I gave Noya the address and some _won_ for the cab.”

 

“Then we have plenty of time.” Hinata untucks his chin from his chest and wiggles closer to him. His smile looks stupid. Kageyama frowns harder, because he likes it.

 

Sure, he hopes they play tomorrow, more than anything. But some time with Hinata in a fancy hotel room isn’t the worst consolation prize, either.

 

***

 

“Last hit!”

 

“It’s left! Go!”

 

Hinata’s fingertips sting from the force of the ball as he angles it away from the floor. He makes eye contact with Taiwan’s ace as his feet touch the parquet and grins.

 

“One touch!” The ball flies past Taiwan’s libero, and one of their blockers has to dive to save it.

 

The other side is in disarray, and Japan’s spikers are in perfect formation—they can finish things with a synchronized attack, if Kageyama sends the ball to the right person. That was Captain Sawamura’s plan, after all, when he put Hinata on the court shortly after Kageyama.  Hinata leaps, and the blockers leap, too, and—the ball doesn’t come to him; it flies to Tanaka in the blink of an eye, and Hinata hears the spike slam against the court before he sees the electronic scoreboard change from 25-24 to 26-24, Japan.

 

“HELL YES!” Tanaka falls to his knees, fists in the air. The rest of the team piles on, cheering so loud it’s just primal screaming, even Kageyama. Japan’s win in the third set is a total upset, the crowd is going nuts, and they can see Lev sitting comically on Noya’s shoulders in the fourth row, yelling, “MY DADS ARE THE STRONGEST!”

 

On his way to the locker room, Hinata spots Kei and bounds over to him, pushing past the cameras flashing bright in the cement hallway, even past the microphones pointing in his face. He leaps onto his agent, clinging to him like a cicada on a telephone pole, and squeezes his rib cage with the full force of his adrenaline. “You did this, Tsukishima! You did this!” When Hinata plants a loud kiss on his forehead Kei looks so horrified and disgusted that Kageyama has to peel away his husband before their agent can drop the both of them like a ton of bricks.

 

Hinata clamps around Kageyama instead and starts making a mess of his neck with kisses. Kageyama steadies Hinata with his hands around his back, and speaks to Kei as if he doesn’t have a parasite sucking on his throat. “He’s right. Thank you, Tsukishima.”

 

“It was for both our sakes,” Kei says. “I didn’t really have a choice, remember?”

 

Hinata comes up for air and laughs. “Have I mentioned how much I like this Tsukishima better, Tobio? He’s funny when he tries to be mean.”

 

Kei doesn’t have time to make a retort. Lev comes flying down the hallway, his babysitter in hot pursuit, and the four of them embrace, jumping up and down, Lev happily squished in the middle. Noya glances over at Kei and makes a face like _You want in on this?_ He shakes his head.

 

Kei waits around for his volleyball weirdos to emerge from the locker room for almost half an hour before he decides just to find them himself. Everyone else is on their way to a celebratory dinner by now, and even the press has cleared out in search of interviewees on the losing team.

 

“Oh Christ,” he complains when he finds Kageyama pinned by his shoulders to the wall of red lockers. “We’re a fifteen minute drive from the hotel.”

 

Hinata turns around, so that Kei can see both their faces. They both look incensed and, okay, at least they’re not kissing.

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

Hinata sniffles, and, oh jeez, has he been _crying_? Kei tenses; he’s a sports agent, not a therapist.

 

But when Hinata speaks, he doesn’t sound upset. “I was just asking Kageyama why he tossed to Tanaka, and we were talking about it.”

 

“Sure. Talking,” Kei replies. “Can you ‘talk’ in the car? The driver’s waiting.”

 

“Just give us a minute, if it’s possible,” Kageyama says. His voice is level, like he and Hinata weren’t just fighting. Or whatever they like to call it.

 

“One minute? Fine.” Kei sighs and adjusts his glasses. “You guys make this look easy.”

 

Hinata laughs. “Make what look easy? Arguing?”

 

“Or whatever,” Kei says. Hinata trades amused looks with Kageyama, like they’re in on some joke he’s never heard before.

 

“This wasn’t always easy,” Kageyama says, and points very generally at Hinata, who makes a noise of offense. “Shouyou and I met in junior high, and the first thing we ever did was yell at each other. We got in more than one fist fight in high school. By the time I fell in love with him, I was worried that we’d hurt each other way too much ever to get past it.”

 

“You do realize you still get into fist fights now,” Kei says dryly. “Isn’t that the basis of your whole barbaric relationship?”

 

“That doesn’t mean we never hurt each other’s feelings,” Kageyama replies, crossing his arms. “Most of our fights are no big deal, but sometimes one of us still takes it too far or crosses a line. Even now it’s not perfect.”

 

God, Kei is never _not_ going to be weirded out by the way there seems to be two Kageyamas. There’s the fiery one always ready to pounce at the smallest slight, the one he is toward Hinata—and the serious, level-headed one, who’s stupid, sure, but at least puts on a respectful face for everyone else. Is that what love is? Kei wonders. Is love someone who makes you another version of yourself?

 

Kei sighs, scrunching his nose underneath the bridge of his glasses. Fine, love isn’t easy. He _knows_ this, because his relationship with Tadashi hasn’t exactly been _easy_. But surely there has to be a right kind of hard and a wrong kind?

 

He decides to ask.

 

“If it’s not easy, how can you tell when it’s right?”

 

“You can’t,” Hinata says. “Not all the time anyway. That’s what we’ve been _saying_ to you, dude, it’s complicated! You know, for a smart guy, Tsukishima, you’re actually kinda dumb.”

 

Kei wants to snipe. God knows these two jerks have plenty of flaws he could point out. But he looks at them standing side-by-side in front of him, and he sighs, because they’re the ones humoring _him_ right now. For better or worse, Kageyama and Hinata have become the marriage experts in Kei’s life. And they’re giving him the best advice they can. He’s in no position to talk back.

 

“Whatever,” he says. “I’ll just figure it out on my own, then.”

 

Kageyama nods. “There’s no other way to do it.”

 

***

 

Kei comes home a day early and announces they’re going to the museum.

 

“Finally,” Yaku says. Tadashi’s not sure who missed whom more—Kei or Yaku.

 

“I know, I know,” Kei says. “It’s not going to be all fun and games, you know. I’m going to tell you about every single dinosaur they’ve got. And then I’m going to quiz you.”

 

“Isn’t that nice, Yaku?” Tadashi asks, teeming with enthusiasm. “You’re gonna come out of this a certified paleontologist.”

 

“I don’t know what that is,” Yaku says. “Can I wear my space shirt?”

 

“Of course, buddy,” Tadashi says. “I’m sure we’ll have time to make a detour to the planetarium too, won’t we?”

 

“Fine,” Kei says. “But dinosaurs first, alright? You know how your dad gets about stars.”

 

“Dad?” Yaku asks, pointing, yes, to _Dad_. “You mean Tadashi-dad?”

 

“Hey,” Tadashi-dad warns.

 

“You know who I mean,” Kei says. “Now get your sneakers—unless you have other plans?” This last part is directed at Tadashi, who shakes his head, biting his lip and smiling. It’s cute, and it stresses Kei out.

 

They get to the museum around half past nine. Tadashi catches Kei’s not-so-covert yawns and teases, “Bored already?” He took a last-minute red eye to get home early enough for a family day, and okay, he is pretty sleepy. But he’ll power through. He has to. Coming home has actually made him feel worse, seeing how happy Yaku and Tadashi are just to spend a Saturday together with him.

 

It helps, kind of, that the museum is full of families. It’s hard to navigate the crowd of strollers, but at least they blend in. There are craft tables by the exhibits set up for the children, too, and Tadashi helps Yaku fold an origami Apatosaurus, which he presents to Kei. Kei holds it in his hands like a baby bird and promises to take it in his wallet everywhere he travels.

 

“You’ll ruin it that way, though?” Yaku says.

 

“Fine,” Kei says. “I’ll just have to hold it like this for the rest of my life, then.”

 

In the main hall, Kei shows him the skeleton of the enormous Argentinosaurus, its body occupying almost the full length of the room. He tells Yaku that none of the bones are real, that they’re all cast replicas, which earns him a few glares from surrounding parents. Kei exchanges glances with Yaku who rolls his eyes, and he feels a burst of pride— _his_ kid isn’t disappointed by trivial things like whether the specimens are completely authentic. They’re accurate, what more do you need?

 

They move on to the hall of birds. Yaku seems a little put off by the taxidermy; he mumbles that he doesn’t want a pet after all.

 

Yaku is especially bothered by a stuffed heron, until Tadashi points out it looks kind of like Kei—gangly and blank-faced. “Hey,” Kei says, but Tadashi picks up Yaku and sounds through the description with him: migratory, solitary, with a flexible carnivorous diet.

 

Kei decides he doesn’t like herons, either.

 

That night, a few hours before he has to get up and leave for Penang, Kei asks Tadashi if he’s still awake.

 

Tadashi rolls over. “I am now,” he mumbles, groggy. “What is it?”

 

Kei doesn’t say anything. Tadashi sighs and flops back over, pulling the comforter tight around his shoulders. He exhales, settling back into sleep. Kei gapes.

 

“I’m not the kind of person who runs away from my problems anymore,” he says, after a minute.

 

Tadashi hums. “Problems?”

 

“You know what I mean,” Kei says.

 

“I had fun today, Tsukki,” he says, yawning. “Don’t ruin it.”

 

***

 

The second round, the one in Penang, doesn’t go as smoothly.

 

“BASTARD!” Hinata screams as he knocks Kageyama back-flat onto the court. Iran’s team has just passed the 20-point mark. It’s the second match of three and Japan is down by five points, struggling to keep the other team’s spikes in play. They’ve already had to remove one middle blocker thanks to a flare-up of a long-term knee injury, and their current formation isn’t one they’re used to.

 

Kageyama’s head hits the parquet with an alarming smack, and Tanaka screams, “Are you out of your freaking mind?!” Tanaka doesn’t move to touch them, though—no one on the court does; they’d be doomed if anyone else got plastered with the inevitable penalty. By the time Kageyama is able to react, jerking Hinata to the floor by the hem of his shirt, two supervisors are already on them, and Ukai is stabbing his finger at the bench, screaming that they’re out of the game.

 

This stops them, of course.

 

“No,” Hinata whimpers. Kageyama lets Hinata pull him to his feet, and he grabs him by the collar, gently. Hinata understands. They bow to the referee, to their coach, to Takeda-san. Then again, to their teammates. It’s humiliating.

 

As they sit on the bench, Hinata buries his face in Kageyama’s shoulder.

 

“Don’t mess up my uniform,” Kageyama says.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hinata chokes out.

 

“Don’t be,” Kageyama mumbles into his hair. “We haven’t lost yet.”

 

Their teammates have already resumed the match and narrowed the point gap to three. Somehow Hinata doesn’t feel any better.

 

“Hey,” Kageyama says. “We went two whole months of practice without any problems on the court.”

 

Hinata brightens momentarily. “New record.”

 

“Don’t worry. We’ll prove ourselves again.”

 

“Of course we will.”

 

If their agent doesn’t kill them first.

 

Kei isn’t on the court to confront them; he’s a few rows above and across, too far away to make out the details of his expression. It’s a safe bet it’s going to be a tough conversation, though, and Kageyama knows there’s no reasonable excuse for their behavior, except that he and Hinata have a certain kind of relationship and this is just what works best for them.

 

“But it won’t happen again,” Kageyama promises, when Kei corners them after the game.

 

Tsukishima clicks his tongue in disgust. “I never took you for a liar, Kageyama.”

 

“I’m not—lying,” Kageyama stumbles. He doesn’t feel like he’s lying, of course, but he’s been with Hinata for a long time, and it’s hard to change—

 

“You wanna thank me for what I did for you guys—show it by not acting like two overgrown infants on the court.”

 

“That’s not how it is at all!” Hinata snaps.

 

“Shouyou,” Kageyama warns.

 

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” Hinata says. “I’m not saying it’s good to interrupt the game, but—this is just the way we are! We’ve worked _so_ hard to get to this point, and even if it doesn’t make sense to other people, or if it scares them—we score together be _cause_ we’re this way!”

 

“Ha. Okay,” Kei says. “How about this? I don’t want an apology. I want corrigible _clients_.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

 

“Don’t bother!” Hinata snaps. “We don’t need you here anyway, we _told_ you to stay in Japan. Why don’t you just go back to your husband?”

 

Kei freezes. “I'm doing my job.”

 

“How’s your marriage, Tsukishima?”

 

“Leave Tadashi out of this.”

 

Hinata scoffs. “Sure. You seem to have no problem with that.”

 

Kei turns. He refuses to engage, as always, and it’s fucking infuriating, Hinata’s always thought. “If you’re done, I’ll be going now.”

 

Hinata thinks it is so unfair, the way Kei says he tries so hard when he doesn’t even know _how_ to try.

 

He wonders where Lev is. They should probably apologize to their son.

 

***

 

“Yeah—red eye out of Miyagi, tomorrow,” Kei says into the phone, voice low. He’s sitting on the back porch back in Sendai, watching the moths circle lazily around the lamp over the door. The summer heat has all but dissipated for the year. It’s going to be a bitter autumn, the weather channel says, and Kei isn't looking forward to it.

 

A shadow appears behind the screen and at first Kei thinks it’s Akaashi coming out for a smoke—but it’s Tadashi, wearing a long-sleeved shirt for the first time in weeks and an expression Kei has never seen before. He feels reflexive guilt and hopes Tadashi didn’t overhear the phone conversation about his flight—he’s not sure whether his voice sounded sufficiently regretful about leaving, he’s only been home a few days, after all…

 

“Hey, Tsukki,” Tadashi says brightly, settling on the opposite side of the bench, a gaping thirty centimeters between them. “Let’s talk.”

 

Kei really, really does not want to talk. He feels like a goddamn cartoon fisherman plugging holes in a flooding canoe with his fingers, only he’s running out of hands and the water’s pouring in fast. Tadashi wanting to talk is like a wave sweeping over the boat; there is nothing he can do to stop it. He tenses up instinctively at it.

 

“Fine,” Kei says.

 

“This is my fault,” Tadashi says.

 

“What is?” Kei asks.

 

Tadashi makes a face. “Are you going to fight me through this whole conversation, Tsukki?”

 

Kei starts. Stops. Imagines a whole million different ways said conversation could go in the blink of an eye. “Go ahead,” he says, after a moment.

 

“It’s not fair to you,” Tadashi says. “This whole thing. I should have seen it from the beginning, you know? Of course you’d be traveling a lot. That’s the job. And…it’s not like there’s any way for both of us to travel, someone needs to be here, for work, for Yaku. So…I’m sorry.”

 

Kei shifts so his face is in shadow. “I don’t know what you’re sorry about.”

 

“Tsukki,” Tadashi says, exasperated.

 

“What do you want, exactly, Tadashi?” Kei asks, his voice weak. “Why don’t you just tell me? It’d sure as hell be easier that way.”

 

Tadashi shakes his head. “I want not to have to tell you.”

 

“That’s not fair,” Kei says.

 

“Kei—it’s not…” Tadashi pauses. “It was flattering how you wanted to put a pin in things, but flattering gets old, okay?”

 

“I don’t like quitting.” It’s the wrong thing to say, and Kei knows it, but that doesn’t make it untrue.

 

“I’m not a _project_ , Tsukki! You can’t put me on hold. I’m not—I’m not one of your clients you can get away with juggling just by calling home every once in a while!” Tadashi squeezes his eyes shut and Kei watches, horrified, as tears roll down his face. He reaches out to wipe them away, and Tadashi tucks his chin to his chest, pulling back.

 

Kei gives a heavy sigh and slides across the bench to Tadashi. He raises his chin with his index finger, gently, and Tadashi whimpers, squeezing his eyes even tighter for a moment. Then he opens them, and stares at Kei with watery eyes, the red flush of his face stark against his freckles. Kei looks at him steadily, waiting. Then Tadashi crumbles into him, clutching the front of his shirt, shoulders shaking. Kei rubs his back, thinking it would be okay if a meteorite crashed into the yard right now, in the last moments of their relationship.

 

“I want to be an easy person,” he says finally. “You deserve it.”

 

“Quit telling me what I deserve, Tsukki,” Tadashi says, but he doesn’t pull away. “Quit treating me like I can’t handle this. You’re the one who has no idea how to cope.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“Come on, it’s not like this is easy for me.” Tadashi smiles through his tears, and his eyes are so red his irises look distinctly green. “It was almost perfect on paper for a little while there, wasn’t it? I’ve got this great guy who loves my kid…” He takes a shuddering breath. “And he sure likes me a whole lot.”

 

Kei wants to punch himself in the gut for not being able to deny this. He wants _Tadashi_ to punch him in the gut.

 

“You can’t wait any longer?” he asks at last. “For me to figure it out?”

 

Tadashi laughs bitterly. “Tsukki, we could be forty by the time you decide whether or not you’re in love with me. Let’s not waste time being polite anymore, okay?”

 

“What about work?” he asks weakly.

 

“I don’t mind keeping the office here as long as…as long as you move out,” Tadashi manages.

 

“And Yaku?”

 

Tadashi startles at the ache in his voice. “You’ll be friends.”

 

They don’t talk anymore after this. Kei sits with his hands absent-mindedly in Tadashi’s hair, and eventually Tadashi goes inside. When Kei finally decides it’s time for bed, he finds Tadashi curled around Yaku in Yaku’s room.

 

He decides not to disturb them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (squinting harder) IS THIS COMEDY??????????
> 
> when i wrote this over the summer i listened to “the district sleeps alone tonight” on repeat and felt kinda pained about it


	7. jerk with a heart of cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big game. Also, problem-solving time.

Even after he moved in with Tadashi and Yaku, Kei was never able to sell his oversized apartment. That’s what he gets for trying to be stylish and metropolitan in fucking _Sendai_ , he guesses—but now it turns out it was kind of lucky he couldn’t sell it, because when he moves out of Tadashi’s house, he’s not sure where else he could have gone. Akiteru would say yes if Kei asked to stay, but Akiteru is, by default, out of the question.

 

The apartment is hot and dusty when he returns to it, fishing his key from the very bottom of his briefcase. He’s relieved when the lights and—more pressingly—the A/C are still functioning.

 

It feels familiar, flopping stomach-first on his old bed. Familiar, but not good. He thinks of his first wine-saturated night back in Sendai after the memo incident. The memory is so distant he can’t even regret it anymore; too much has piled up between then and now. And besides, his whole life had been rushing toward some personal crisis like that anyway. It was no accident, what Kei had been doing when he wrote that memo.

 

Kei blinks, and it’s morning.

 

His apartment is freezing now, with the air having blasted all night.

 

He pushes himself out of bed and rolls an awful crick in his neck. Childishly, he thinks _I deserve it_ , then he curses himself for being such a fucking baby, then he thinks _I deserve that, too._ It’s a new level of misery, one he could have never predicted before: self-loathing, self-indulgent shame. Shame is familiar to Kei—he could trace it back to adolescence maybe, or back to Akiteru, whatever—it’s kind of his _thing_ , being secretly, helplessly ashamed.

 

Tadashi was right last night, though. He really has no fucking idea how to cope. He used to have the job, but now he doesn’t even have that.

 

Kei laughs. The sound is hoarse and unfamiliar. He rarely laughs, even when he’s watching funny movies with Tadashi—even then the laughter is soft, muffled on his husband’s shoulder, his smile hidden pressed to his sweater, where only Tadashi can feel it.

 

And okay, that’s new, too—missing someone.

 

If this is heartbreak—and Kei thinks it probably is, because even though he’s a jerk with a heart of cold, he’s not stupid—then he has made an awful mistake.

 

But it’s not like he would have been able to get out of his own way, anyway.

 

He calls Kageyama and Hinata. They won’t talk to him. Not really, anyway. Even before they became his only clients, they had never been courteous or cold. So Hinata’s curt answers and Kageyama’s silence are pointed. Fine, point taken.

 

When Tadashi had pulled away from him on that rickety old bench on their back porch, Kei’s first thought had been _I guess everything is going to go back to normal now_. But that was wrong, wasn’t it? _Normal_ for Kei had been late nights at SMN, crappy familial relationships, a belief he could make himself invulnerable with success. Clients like Hinata and Kageyama had been the bottom of his list of priorities.

 

But. God. What was he expecting when the King of Bullshit met the Prince of All Things Pure and Honest?

 

There he goes again, being diminutive. He flashes back to Tadashi, face red, fists clenched, growling at him to _stop treating him like he couldn’t handle this_. Guilt clutches at his stomach, and Kei could spend the rest of the morning cycling the stages of grief, but he has a plane to catch.

 

As he stands at the bathroom mirror and brushes his teeth, Kei laughs again, because _god,_ it’s so funny that a person could be this miserable. It’s so funny that other people out there have shitty things happening _to_ them and here he is, bringing it all upon himself. He laughs until tears prick at his eyes, and it’s enough to carry him into the kitchen, to the coffeemaker he left behind. He pushes the laughter down hard, collecting himself as he pours a scalding Americano.

 

Kei pulls his cell phone off the charger. No new texts, but a few unanswered ones, mostly questions from Yachi and Asahi (on behalf of Tadashi, with the excuse that Tadashi was always “on a call right now”). A text from Akiteru, too. Wondering why he’s fallen off the radar. He still isn’t sure what to say.

 

It wasn’t _Kei_ who admitted his break-up to Akiteru, of course; the news must have traveled like some fucked-up game of telephone from Tadashi to Kiyoko to Saeko to his nice, _fine_ , but incorrigibly _nosy_ older brother. The text from Akiteru screams in all caps, _WHAT THE FUCK WENT DOWN WITH YOU AND YAMAGUCHI??????,_ followed by an emotional rollercoaster’s worth of emoji. Kei doesn’t want to respond—that would make it more real than he is ready to admit—but he is worried that if he stays silent much longer Akiteru will show up and the thought of facing anyone right now is more than he can bear.

 

_Nothing good. Don’t come over. Leaving for Tokyo today._

 

Today is the last round of the Asian Volleyball Games, and Japan is the underdog against running champs Indonesia. Hinata and Kageyama are in Sendai for a two-day break before the finals, and he hopes that Tadashi isn’t stuck giving them a ride to the airport, or something. Thankfully Tadashi is nowhere to be seen when he meets his clients at the gate.

 

“Hey,” Hinata says. Kei can tell he’s wary—he’s wary, too.

 

“Hey,” he says back. He looks at Kageyama. “Hey,” he repeats, a little harsher. Kageyama shrugs. It’s civil, for all that it’s cold, but Kei will take what he can get.

 

“Yo, Tsukishima-san.” Noya extends a friendly hand from where he is holding a jumping Lev in place in line. “You going too, or just saying goodbye like me and Lev?” There’s a trace of something on his face, and when Kei recognizes it, he scowls. _Pity_. Maybe he shouldn’t be mad that news travels—but the more lines of gossip he has to imagine running to let everyone know that he and Tadashi are old news, the more he wants to move to Antarctica. Buy a new winter coat, move as southward as possible, and study rare dinosaur bones with some hermit government scientists.

 

Yaku’s influence, for sure.

 

Noya follows Kei as he lines up for boarding. He moves his hand to cover Lev’s ears. Lev screams, but Noya has a good grip on him, and he grins as Lev kicks backward at his shins. His voice drops to a less boisterous volume, and he says _,_ “Tough luck, man. With Yamaguchi. Matters of the heart are shitty.”

 

Kei sets his mouth in a hard line. “Yeah, what would you know?”

 

Noya shrugs. “I’m there with you, man. It’s hard to see another player get down about someone.”

 

“I’m not a _player_.”

 

“Oh? Huh,” Noya says. “You’ve got the looks for it.”

 

Yup, and there’s the headache. “Noya-san, we are not having this conversation,” he says, rubbing circles into his temples.

 

Noya grin. “I get you.”

 

“You don’t.”

 

“I do! But I’ll leave you alone,” he says. He lets Lev wrestle free from his grip and the boy roars, stomping on his babysitter’s feet. Noya stomps back. Kei used to think it was incredible someone who looked like Asahi could make it as a babysitter; in reality, there’s nothing _incredible_ about Asahi next to Noya.

 

 _Oh_ , he realizes. The babysitters must have had a falling out. He grins—misery loves company, and all that.

 

“Thanks,” Kei says. He crouches to address Lev. “Does Yaku know you’re back? You should invite him over for the big game tonight.”

 

Lev jumps at this. “Noya, let’s call Yaku! And Asahi-san!”

 

Noya looks downright betrayed when he realizes what Kei has done to him.

 

“I don’t know, Lev, Yaku’s a stick in the mud isn’t he? His bedtime is probably before the game even starts…”

 

“Yaku! Yaku! Yaku!” Lev chants. Noya grimaces and pulls his phone out of his pocket and passes it down to Lev. “Why don’t you give Asahi-san a call, Lev?”

 

Lev seems ecstatic about the cell phone, and he holds it up in the air like a baby lion. Kei bets ten seconds before he drops it.

 

“Goodbye, Lev,” Kei says, as he flashes his ticket and gets on the plane.

 

“Bye, Yaku’s dad.”

 

***

 

Captain Sawamura makes it clear to Hinata and Kageyama that the only way they’ll see any game time today hinges on there being some sort of disaster.

 

“A natural disaster?” Hinata asks. “That’s pretty dark, Captain.”

 

Sawamura groans at this. “I can’t tell if you’re being cute, Hinata,” he says, “but two players who are on the brink of expulsion from their own league don’t have _cute_ privileges.”

 

Kageyama elbows him. “That’s right, stupid.”

 

Sawamura shoots him a glare. “They don’t have name-calling privileges, either. The only reason I’m not reaming you out again is because I know you two beat yourselves up better than I ever could.”

 

“Yeah, well, not as well as Tanaka-san,” Kageyama grumbles, too quietly even for their captain to hear. The wing spiker had whopped them each on the head after the game, and there was nothing _cute_ about it.

 

Sawamura clears his throat and pushes to the center of the circle. His team snaps to attention, tense and rigid on the morning of what is, for some of them, the last Asian Games of their career.

 

“Today we face our final opponents,” Sawamura says. “They are, on the whole, much taller than us. Their technique is formidable. But ours is too, and if height was enough to scare any of us, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. Don’t forget that when we score, we’re putting up as good a fight as any of them are when they do the same.”

 

Usually Kageyama likes Captain Sawamura’s speeches. They all resemble each other  in one way or another, but he has a strong, convincing voice, and he speaks as if they really are going into battle.

 

“It would be foolish to pretend we’re not all thinking about the recruiters in the audience. Not just for the Olympics—from other countries, too. It’s exciting, but don’t let it go to your heads. We play as a team. If any of us stands out, it’s only because we have so many strong allies helping us along the way. Now go fight.”

 

As the team bounds out of the locker room, amped and ready to play, Kageyama tugs Hinata back by his collar.

 

“Shouyou,” he says, voice a lot tenser and darker than he means it to be. Hinata squeaks and crouches in his typical battle stance. Kageyama shakes his head; he’s not looking for a fight.

 

“What is it?” Hinata asks, tilting his head.

 

“I love you.”

 

Hinata sighs dramatically, like he doesn’t know how he puts up with his silly husband. “Jeez, Tobio. I know that. You don’t have to grab me if you want some pre-game attention, you know.”

 

“It’s important, though,” Kageyama says. His voice drops low, and he looks around apprehensively, making sure the locker room is really empty. “If we go on the court today…I promise not to kiss you.”

 

Hinata puzzles this out. “You love me, so…you’re _not_ going to kiss me?”

 

“I didn’t say anything about after the game, you dope! I meant _during_! Obviously!” Kageyama grabs both of Hinata’s arms in his one hand and tugs him forward, knocking him off balance. “So don’t you try to kiss me, either! Or fight me! I know we play _for each other_ , but there’s no point if we can’t play at all!”

 

Hinata’s eyes drop to the around his wrists; the grip has gone gentle. He grins, and the amusement on his face pisses off Kageyama he almost instantly forgets his resolve. “You’re thinking about kissing me right now, aren’t you, Kageyama-san?”

 

Kageyama sighs. This is Hinata, after all—and it’s him, too. He breathes deeply and relaxes his shoulders. “I have a feeling we’re going to end up playing today is all, alright? And if we do, there’s a good chance we’ll end up in Rio next year. So let’s try to hide how much we love each other for like, an hour, okay?”

 

Hinata breaks his grip and dances away from his husband. “Can’t touch me over here,” he sings.

 

Kageyama groans. “And no treating it like a game, either. It’s too distracting. Make it like when we were first years at Karasuno. We were able to hold off kissing for a whole _year_ back then.”

 

“Yeah, until I scored the winning point at Nationals.”

 

“That’s—whatever. Do you understand what I said?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Good. Then let’s go.”

 

“Kageyama?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I have a feeling we’re going to play today, too.”

 

“Stupid. It’s just because you want it so bad.”

 

***

 

Kei stands in the waiting area playing with his phone and toying with the idea of texting his brother back. This is, without a doubt, the most awkward collection of people around whom he has had to spend time in weeks.

 

And this is coming from a guy who has zero friends and a future ex- _spouse_.

 

At least today being a _day_ isn’t surprising anymore. Every single day Kei has had for the past few weeks has been a real _day_. It doesn’t really make it any less shitty, but at least he has stopped getting his hopes up that anything nice might happen.

 

He would give pretty much anything, though, to get rid of just _one_ of his former co-workers from this room—even Kuroo, who loves to provoke him, sure, but is never actually cruel. Hell, he’d get rid of even _Kenma_ , just because Kei has always found him a little creepy, relatively tolerable as he is. But including and especially Oikawa, whom Kei has come to admit, bitterly, is much better at this job than Kei ever gave him credit for.

 

 _If I had anything left to give_ , he thinks darkly, and it’s so absurd and self-pitying he feels that unhinged laughter bubbling up in him again. He prays no one notices; he’s pretty sure the months-old rumors of his nervous breakdown have finally ceased circulating.

 

“Look who decided to show his face,” Oikawa sings. “Surprised you didn’t drop the oddball duo after what went down in Penang.”

 

Kei sighs. It’s not like he can blame Oikawa for that—hell, they’ve already punched each other, there wasn’t really anywhere left to go with a not-so-friendly workplace rivalry after that. “I need them more than they need me.”

 

Oikawa half-smiles, crosses his arms. “That’s kind of dignified, Kei-chan.”

 

“Yeah, well. More than I can say about you.”

 

“Flattery! Lovely. But don’t think I’m not going to fight you for the new crop of college athletes,” he says.

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Did you hear Nekomata-san promoted me already?”

 

“Don’t push it, Oikawa.”

 

Oikawa hums. It’s the opposite of disarming, but they already settled things months ago. He has nothing left to win away from Kei.

 

“The game’s starting,” Kei mutters, excusing himself so he can find a reserved seat away from any of his ex-colleagues.

 

***

 

Noya could kill Kei for suggesting that Lev invite Yaku over.  Even if Kei said it because he loves his kid, and not because he wants Noya to have a terrible, terrible night.

 

Asahi’s hard pass on future pancakes basically knocked the wind out of Noya’s chest. Noya misreads situations all the time, sure—the waitress at his favorite diner, for instance; his dashing mailman—but those were relatively low-risk situations. He had moved on instantly, because there were tons of cute, hot, _amazing_ people in the world, and the chances of Noya and any one of them being perfect soulmates was very low. No hard feelings; on to the next one.

 

But Noya hadn’t moved on from Asahi. Wasn’t that obvious? Had he not made it clear with his invitations to Tokyo? With the extended foreplay? With his pancakes?

 

Where had he gone wrong? Usually he doesn’t search for answers—just lets them surface—but the question is making him antsy _._

 

God, if Noya didn’t know any better—he would say he was _embarrassed_ about the situation, of all things.

 

But Lev looks ecstatic at the prospect of seeing Yaku, so he claps his hands on his face and tells himself to suck it up. That’s what Asahi had wanted anyway, wasn’t it? A friend for Yaku. And now that Lev had started school mid-year in Tokyo, too, Lev kind of needed a friend, too. Even though it was hard to get Lev down about anything, his new classmates seemed to take pleasure in making fun of Lev’s foreign name and his awkward height. Plus Lev has been bored as all get out without anyone to invite over for a playdate. It pisses Noya off, to be honest, that other kids could be so mean to his.

 

Asahi and Yaku arrive just as the pre-game coverage comes to a close. Lev pounces on Yaku the second he walks through the door, dodging his ferocious kicks and nuzzling his fuzzy brown hair like a teddy bear.

 

“Tokyo is boring, Yaku,” Lev whines. “There’s nothing to _do_!”

 

“Yeah right,” Yaku grumbles. “Tokyo is the biggest city in the whole world. _You’re_ boring.”

 

“You’re not boring, Yaku!” He squeezes Yaku harder. “That’s why we’re best friends.”

 

“Is that right?” Noya says, grinning. He gently wrestles Lev away from Yaku, patting his back and pointing him  into the living room. “Go turn up the TV while I grab some snacks.”

 

Lev skips into the living room pursued by Yaku. He’s curses internally when Asahi follows him into the kitchen, because Asahi might inadvertently say something _else_ that would make Noya feel bad about the whole thing. Then again, there’s also the chance that he might apologize.

 

 _Even though he has nothing to apologize for_ , Noya reminds himself. Maybe if he busies himself with the snacks, avoids eye contact, he can put off whatever uncomfortable conversation is coming next.

 

“What are you making?” Asahi asks. Well, of course Asahi didn’t follow him into the kitchen to confront him. He’s not calculating like that—Noya recognizes this in him because he himself isn’t either.

 

“Not pancakes,” Noya says brightly—and regrets it before the words are out of his mouth. He’s totally shown his hand, letting Asahi know that he’s still harboring pancake-related bitterness. Asahi smiles pleasantly but clams up, turning to the cabinet to look for a plate for the celery. “You can just take that in the living room. I’ll be right out. You want a beer?”

 

Asahi shakes his head, which Noya doesn’t see because he’s still avoiding eye contact. “No,” he says a moment later. “I drove here.”

 

“You could always take the guest bedroom,” Noya says, but there’s no answer; Asahi has already left the kitchen.

 

That went…kind of poorly.

 

Noya arranges the ants on a log on a plate and realizes that this is his second mistake of the night. First he stirs up the breakfast-related tension and now he’s serving a snack he learned to make from _Asahi_?

 

Noya catches his reflection in the darkened window above the kitchen sink. _Who are you?!_ he mouths at himself.

 

There’s a collective groan from the living room. The game has started, and the first point’s gone to Indonesia.

 

***

 

The start of the match is rough.

 

Tension is already running high before the first serve. Sure, Japan has the home field advantage, but Indonesia is a fan favorite to win, popular even outside of their home country. Japan’s setter is in the back row and in an uncharacteristically foul mood. He leaps for a jump serve. The ball flies way out of the other team’s court.

 

A whistle blows. Player substitution, Kageyama for their main setter.

 

“Again?” complains a fan behind Kei. “They could at _least_ use Sugawara.”

 

“That guy gets way too many second chances,” replies someone else. Kei feels suddenly self-conscious, as if everyone around him is somehow going to know he’s Kageyama’s agent, and burn him at the stake if anything goes wrong.

 

Kageyama looks strong and serious as he takes the court, which is good. When he keeps his mouth shut and his temper in check, he can actually fool most people into thinking he is a reasonable adult with complete emotional development, although his reputation in the volleyball world precedes him. Tanaka (one of Kuroo’s clients) and Iwaizumi (one of Oikawa’s) even slap him on the back as he finds his position; Kei is relieved that whatever comradery he had managed to build with his teammates wasn’t destroyed by the Penang incident.

 

Kei is about to relax when he hears the whistle blow again, and another player steps up to the court—Hinata.

 

“Are you kidding me?” the fan behind Kei groans again. He whips back his head to try to find the culprit, hoping to pin them with one of his trademarked withering glares. Kei is just as nervous and ornery as anyone else rooting for Japan in the crowd, but as long as Hinata and Kageyama don’t get themselves in any trouble, it’s actually better for all three of them if they see play time.

 

Things go smoothly, for the first few plays. Kageyama even manages a service ace, and Hinata is able to whip out one of their classic freak quicks which put them on the map in the first place. The point gap shrinks, closes. Japan reaches its twenty-fourth point.

 

The next block is messy. Hinata and Tanaka both jump horizontally to make up for the unexpectedly wide space between them, and Hinata comes crashing down on top of him, half-somersaulting through the air. The whistle shrills. Point for Japan—the set is theirs, and the crowd leaps collectively to its feet, screaming.

                                                                                                                               

“Hey, Tsukishima, how many fingers am I holding up?” Kuroo calls from a few rows back. Kei rolls his eyes; Kuroo is holding up one finger in particular.

 

He turns to watch Tanaka maneuver out from underneath Hinata. “Tell Tanaka-san to be more careful,” he calls back to Kuroo. “He’s going crush my client if he doesn’t watch where he’s going.”

 

***

 

“You’re watching the game?”

 

Akaashi says this the same way he would if Tadashi had placed his hand on the flat of a hot stove.

 

“Hinata and Kageyama are my friends,” he says quietly. “It’s not like I’m going to see _him_.”

 

Akaashi keeps glaring until Tadashi utters a noise of defeat.

 

“Fine, just let me check the score. I won’t unmute it.”

 

“You’re interrupting our meeting,” Akaashi says.

 

Tadashi rolls his eyes at the small group of doctors circled around his living room coffee table. “I’ll be good,” he promises, half-directing it at Aone, who looks particularly perturbed to have an outsider listening in on his recounting of a botched foot surgery. “But I swear you people only _pretend_ to be a support group. Are you sure you’re not just swapping the horror stories?”

 

“Hey,” Akaashi warns. But he makes no further attempt to remove him. Tadashi is in a rare sour mood—well, formerly rare. Lately they seem to crop up every time he isn’t preoccupied by work or Yaku. And even though Yaku loves his dad, he is only willing to play with him so many hours a day. Akaashi’s drops his glare and wraps an arm around his younger brother, letting him lean against his side.

 

Tadashi stares at the score. It’s not great, but at least Hinata and Kageyama are playing. After a couple of rallies, Akaashi flips to the weather channel, claiming concern about the possibility of a thunderstorm. Every few minutes he lets Tadashi flip back to the game, but Akaashi is strict.

 

Tadashi switches between listening to the surgeon’s depressing conversation and the equally depressing running monologue in his own head. Tsukki’s only been gone a night, but he left without saying anything, and that’s not what Tadashi _meant_ when he said he didn’t think they should be together. He hadn’t been ready to lose his best friend.

 

 _Oh my god,_ Tadashi thinks, sitting up so quickly Akaashi side-eyes him. _I’m angry!_ Him, Yamaguchi Tadashi, who feels anger only ever in glimmers and usually on behalf of other people—he’s angry, and it’s exhausting.

 

Once upon a time a therapist had asked him if he was _angry_ that Ichirou had died. But Tadashi was never angry; anger had direction, and sickness was no one’s fault. Sadness was one thing; a well one could sink into and never climb free.

 

Anger, though. Anger at Tsukki, and not in the way one would expect. Even though Tsukki was the one who had proposed to him, Tadashi still doesn’t doubt that Kei had faith he was _on his way_ to being in love—the kind of love needed for a marriage, anyway. Besides, Tadashi pins blame on himself, too. For getting married (again) after only a brief romantic relationship (again), when he has a son who deserves stability more than Tadashi deserves a partner.

 

No, Tadashi cannot articulate his anger toward Tsukki, expect maybe that he wishes that Tsukki had handled things _differently_. Maybe if he’d been honest about his uncertainty. Maybe if he had married him to be _married_ , not to keep him frozen in place while he worked out his own emotional constipation.

 

Outside, the first trees have begun to shiver away their leaves, and Tadashi knows he is in for a long and lonely season.

 

“Let me see the score again,” he says, interrupting Moniwa. Akaashi glares and snatches up the remote before Tadashi can, flicking the TV back to the game.

 

“Wow,” he says. “Japan really turned it around. They’ve caught up.”

 

Tadashi’s eyes are glued to the television. The surgeons murmur polite congratulations to him, but he waves them off.

 

“Wait,” he says. “Something’s wrong.”

 

***

 

Kageyama watches Hinata fall in slow motion—the stretched-out time between the ball hitting his palm and the satisfying _smack_ on the other side of the court.

 

It’s a nasty hit, when he collides with Tanaka. Hinata strikes the ball from an impossible angle, flinging himself up with all his might, then jerking backward to avoid contact with the net. His team screams, grabs at each other—they took the _first_ fucking set against _Indonesia_ , fuck yeah—though the clamor of the crowd outmatches their cheering. But then Kageyama screams “ _Shouyou_!” and the mood drops like a weight in the pit of his stomach.

 

Kageyama grabs the nearest player to Hinata, who happens to be Iwaizumi, shaking him by the front of his shirt. “Did he land on his neck? Did you see him land on his neck?!” Iwaizumi shakes his head and tries to calm Kageyama down, and Kei flies down the stairs and onto the court, leaping over the divider in a way that is anything but professional.

 

Kageyama crouches next to Hinata, who lies still on the parquet, only to be pulled away by Tanaka and Sawamura. “Please,” he begs, furious tears already streaming down his face. “Please, let me talk to him—let me—”

 

“Kageyama, we need to make room for the doctors,” Sawamura says.

 

“Don’t touch him!” Kei snaps as he scrambles onto the court, shaking off security. Kageyama spins around to scream at him, but Kei places firm hands on his shoulders. “The doctor is right behind me. He’s going to help.”

 

Kei glances past Kageyama and sees two of the generic court medics crowding around Hinata. “Get the fuck away from him,” Kei screams at them; one pales, the other screams back, and Kei gets up in his face. “Christ, just let his doctor—his doctor’s right here, come on, come on!” The national team’s doctor makes it to Hinata’s side, and he starts barking instructions to the reamed-out medics.

 

A minute passes. Hinata doesn’t move.

 

“You sure hope his family wasn’t watching that,” one commentator says over the speaker system, and Kei watches the blood drain from Kageyama’s face.

 

***

 

“DAD!”

 

Lev bursts into tears and throws himself at the television. Noya lunges after him. He pulls him into a tight hug so he’s not facing the television and debates covering up his ears. The game’s commentators are calm, and not flippant, but the concern of the crowd is obvious.

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. It looks worse than it is,” Noya murmurs to Lev, petting his hair—he wants to keep his kid calm, but he’s also afraid if he stops talking it will betray his fear. He remembers back when he took a babysitting course, how the instructor had told them very seriously that children can sense fear. Noya remembers laughing at this; how hilariously dark, he’d thought.

 

He’d failed that course, incidentally.

 

Yaku—frightened, tearful, upset in that way children often are, without really understanding why—clambers off the couch and clings to him and Lev. Noya doubts Yaku has processed the situation or that he even knows that he’s being a good friend when he comes to Lev’s side. Kids aren’t usually sensitive, but sometimes their instincts kick in for them.

 

Or maybe Yaku’s scared because he’s never seen Lev upset before—not about anything important, anyway. Lev peels himself from Noya’s grip to look at the television as the camera zooms in on the doctors crowded around Hinata, a stretcher to the side, two uncertain paramedics, discussing whether it’s safe to move him.

 

“Oh my god,” Asahi says. Noya glares; Asahi clamps his mouth shut immediately. He drags Yaku back to the couch, letting him crawl into his lap and hide his face. Noya picks up Lev and sits close to them on the couch, so the four of them are huddled together, waiting for Hinata to _move_. His heart hammers in his chest as he leans against Asahi, wanting to hide his face like Lev and Yaku.

 

“It’s okay,” Asahi says—and he’s looking at Noya.

 

Noya mouths at him: Is it?

 

***

 

The surgeons erupt with five simultaneous diagnoses, and Tadashi wants to scream.

 

“Just shut up and watch, they’re going to play the clip again!”

 

“How is he landing? Is he hitting—”

 

“No, no—watch—he definitely turns his head _before_ he hits the ground—”

 

“That doesn’t preclude the possibility of a spinal injury, though.”

 

“Would you shut up, Kunimi?!” Akaashi snaps. “We can’t conclude anything from that . This is unprofessional and you know it.”

 

Tadashi is momentarily moved by the way his brother stands up for him—in his nerdy, medical, off-putting way—but he is scared to look away from the screen, scared that Hinata might try to move and be—really, really hurt. Hinata’s a small guy; it’s probably easier for him to get injured, even in a non-contact sport like volleyball. Tadashi swallows. He feels himself grasping for comfort, only to have his arms close around air. Like the ground’s already slipped from beneath his feet, and there’s no one for him to hold on the way down.

 

He stares at the television set, praying as if Hinata might hear: _Be okay. Be okay. Be okay._

 

***

 

Kageyama can hear Kei speaking to him from far away.

 

“Kageyama. Hey, you can’t freak out.”

 

He can see the colors of the court, shapes in silhouette, but his eyes are unfocused. He’s on his knees, a hand stretched out toward his husband.

 

“Kageyama.”

 

“I need to talk to my son,” Kageyama says, though he doesn’t look away from Hinata, who looks so still and small only a few meters away. It feels—wrong. The doctors are murmuring to each other and the din of the crowd makes it hard to think.

 

“Kageyama,” Kei says again. “I’m going to call Noya-san. He’ll put Lev on the phone, just stay calm for thirty seconds.”

 

Kageyama raises his eyes and glares at Kei. Lucid, suddenly. It gives Kei awful chills.

 

“Hinata and Lev are my family. It doesn’t work without all of us.”

 

Kei exhales. He dials the babysitter.

 

When Lev comes to the phone, Kageyama cradles it to his ear, mostly just mumbling that he loves him over and over again. Kei grits his teeth—this is bad. Really, really bad. And not the kind of problem he’s used to dealing with—they’re his friends.

 

From this angle he can only see the orange puff of Hinata’s hair. _Move, dammit,_ he thinks. _Move_.

 

For the first time in three awful minutes, Hinata does.

 

At first it’s just the flutter of his eyelashes, but it’s enough that the medics clamor in surprise. The encouraging sound snaps Kageyama to attention. He drops Kei’s phone and slides forward on his knees, toward Hinata.

 

“Tobio?” Hinata murmurs, eyes hazy under the fluorescent light. “What happened? Did we win?”

 

Kageyama laughs, but it’s kind of also a sob. “Of course we did, you idiot. Of course we won.” He glances at the doctor for permission before he takes Hinata’s hand and squeezes. “That’s what we do.”

 

Hinata stretches a little, and it’s promising—from the side Kei can see his arms and his legs move, in a way that looks healthy and normal and alive.

 

“Jeez, Tobio, how much did we drink? My head”—he hisses, registering the pain—“my head is killing me. Did you carry me home?”

 

“Dumbass,” Kageyama mumbles, leaning forward until he’s resting his forehead on Hinata’s stomach.

 

Hinata laughs weakly. “I know Dr. Takeuchi said not to drink, but you don’t need to cry about it, Tobio.”

 

Then Hinata’s eyes widen, and he sits up with surprising energy. “The game!”  He feels around his own scalp frantically. “My head! It—fuck, it hurts, but—fuck, wow!” He steadies himself against Kageyama’s frame, laughing the whole time. “We’re so close, Tobio. Can’t you feel it? We’re so close to the top of the world.”

 

***

 

Noya and Lev leap from the couch and tear off their jerseys, whipping them around in the air like flags.

 

“Dad’s okay! Dad’s okay!” Lev shrieks.

 

Noya smacks Lev in the face with his shirt. “Of course he’s okay! He’s your dad, Lev! He’s the fastest spiker in the East! He’s fucking unstoppable!”

 

“Language!” Asahi warns, but he’s staring wide-eyed at the television screen, heart brimming with joy.

 

“Stop _crushing_ me,” Yaku complains, twisting out of Asahi’s grip.

 

Noya leans down over Asahi, giving Yaku just a split second to scramble out of the way before his babysitter crashes his mouth into his best friend’s babysitter’s mouth. Noya crawls where Yaku was just sitting, tangling his hands for a moment in Asahi’s hair, and when they break apart, they laugh. Yaku can’t understand what’s funny at all.

 

He rolls his eyes. Why are grown-ups kissing all the time?

 

He looks at Lev, who is scrubbing the tears from his eyes, and wrinkles his nose. “I’m _never_ going to kiss you,” he promises.

 

“Ew,” Lev agrees. “Never.”

 

***

 

“He’s _okay_!” Tadashi shakes his brother’s shoulder so hard Akaashi nearly falls off the arm of the couch. “Do you see that, Keiji? Did you see? He’s okay!”

 

“I saw, Tadashi. He’s really okay.” He lets Tadashi squeeze him in a big embarrassing hug, even though all his doctor friends are there. “Are you crying?”

 

“Of course,” Tadashi says. His shoulders shake; Akaashi pats his back. “Jeez, Keiji. I thought this was _it_. I thought this was the ultimate bad thing after all these weird and confusing months—like this was the train wreck waiting at the end.”

 

“That’s not how life works, little brother.”

 

Tadashi fake-scowls through his tears. “I never pretended to be practical.”

 

***

 

Ukai and Sawamura keep Hinata and Kageyama out of the game until the very last minute, in the third set. Indonesia takes the second, but the crowd has shifted drastically in favor of Japan. Hinata is the hero of the match, and everyone’s fired up, spectators included. Flashbulbs blink like a sequin curtain shifting across the stadium seats as Kei watches his clients take to the court at the set point.

 

It’s not a traditional move, nor is it probably the best show of sportsmanship, but there’s something in the air tonight—everyone seem to think so. So with the approval of Hinata’s doctor, they return to the court at the set point, 24-19, Japan.

 

It only takes one rally, and even though the blockers _know_ the ball is coming to Hinata, they fumble his feint and the ball hits the ground so gently the mics barely pick it up at all.

 

Japan takes the finals. The audiences loses it and so do their teammates, but in the midst of all the chaos, Hinata and Kageyama gravitate toward each other naturally. Hinata closes his eyes and lets himself fall into Kageyama.

 

It’s a charming gesture. Kageyama tries to pretend he’s begrudging, that Hinata’s weight is a pain to drag around, but he smiles just as softly. And when they do kiss, it’s short and stupidly sweet, nothing like the fierce make-outs that got them penalized in the past.

 

Oh. Kei feels the wind whooshing out of his chest, and he clutches at his heart hammering against his ribs. He thinks he might be dying.

 

He also thinks he understands, looking at Hinata looking at Kageyama. Comprehension flickers across his thoughts. He tries to grab onto it, to put it into words, into something actionable.

 

Hinata trusts Kageyama one hundred percent. That’s the shape of their love.

 

He thinks of freckles, of stray hair tickling his face, of a man who refused to worry even when Kei had begged him to—even when he had _sworn_ he could not be trusted. He thinks of how he warned this man, and how that didn’t make it any easier when Kei followed through on his defeatist-as-fuck promise to screw things up.

 

In the hall outside the locker room, Hinata and Kageyama show off Kei to the cameras. He lets them push him around; he’s kind of too stunned to resist. Besides, the reporters could not be _less_ interested in who their manager is—they want interviews with the MVPs of the game. The reporters shove microphones in their faces, asking a hundred questions at once, and Kageyama and Hinata exchange glances and laugh. This is what they’ve always wanted, after all—and they’ve gotten it together.

 

“Why don’t we have a relationship like that?” Bokuto asks Oikawa, nodding at Kei and his clients.

 

“Do you want to hug me that badly, Bokuto-san?” Oikawa asks. “You could have just asked.”

 

Bokuto tilts his head. “Not when you put it like that.”

 

Oikawa looks at them and gives a small huff, talking mostly to himself. “It’s a different approach, that’s for sure. But anyone can tell just by looking at them that what those guys have is special. We’ll see if Kei-chan is able to replicate his success next season.”

 

Bokuto laughs. “You’re scary, Oikawa! But I like you.”

 

“You’d better,” Oikawa says. “Come on, let’s head out. You’re not the one getting the interviews tonight, so we might as well warm up the dance floor at the after-party.”

 

When Kei escapes the press, he finds himself among his old peers again. Kuroo slaps him on the back, saying he can’t believe he really pulled it off; Kenma offers a small nod as well. Agents he doesn’t even recognize come up to him, offer him their cards, their numbers, their hands to be shaken. Kei complies with all of this in a daze.

 

Another probably-agent—though a few years younger, and not anyone he knows—approaches Kei and pulls out a copy of his old memo from his bag. “Can you sign this?” he asks. “It’s been a real inspiration.”

 

“Thanks,” Kei says weakly. When the kid is gone, Kei wonders if he’s just seen a ghost, or if his life really is just as crazy as it feels.

 

***

 

Exhausted from the stress and the screaming and tons and tons of snacks, Lev and Yaku fall unconscious on the couch during the post-game coverage. Asahi and Noya mute the television and move out to the porch, relaxing on a bench where Kageyama and Hinata have a volleyball court in place of a yard.

 

“Fame is weird,” Asahi says. “I mean, answering questions on national television? While still drenched in sweat?” He shakes his head and gestures generally at the court in front of them. “And this is urban Japan. Who even has the room for a volleyball court on their property?”

 

Noya laughs at him. Asahi knew he would; Noya laughs at a lot of the things he says. But he doesn’t mind. Asahi feels childish around Noya. He feels naïve and anxious and anticipatory. It’s not a bad thing.

 

“You don’t seem all that phased by the whole fame thing, Yuu,” he says.

 

“Nothing phases me,” Noya and Asahi say at the same exact time.

 

“Ha! I _knew_ you were going to say that,” Asahi says.

 

“You set me up, Asahi-san!”

 

Asahi blinks at him. “I really did, didn’t I, Yuu?”

 

Noya furrows his brow, puzzled. Asahi rushes to explain: “I mean, you were the one who approached me, but then when I shut you down, I was really just giving myself the power, wasn’t I? I really got you. And I didn’t even know it.” He glances down, suddenly shy. “I thought you would never…”

 

Noya reaches for his hand, bending down to meet his gaze.

 

“Did you think I wouldn’t be all in, Asahi-san?” he asks, peering up at him.

 

“Things like ‘booty call’ and ‘whenever’ aren’t exactly encouraging.”

 

“Jeez.” Noya rubs at his eyes. “I should have known better, with a softie like you. Sorry about that.”

 

“Sorry?” Asahi tries not to laugh; Noya takes momentary offense in Asahi’s disbelief. “No, no, no, I mean, _I’m_ the sorry one here. I sent a bunch of mixed messages. Plus I never thought I’d see you apologize for anything. I must mean a lot to you.”

 

Noya’s face burns, and no way is _he_ gonna be out-embarrassed here. He stares Asahi dead in the eyes, unblinking, and says, “Yeah, Asahi. You do.”

 

***

 

Four hours later—after forty minutes on the shinkansen, another in the airport, one-point-five on a plane, and an unbearable ten in a taxi—Tsukishima Kei stands in the quiet dark of a Sendai suburb, hundreds of miles away from an empty stadium and a post-game party he hopes his clients aren’t getting too drunk at.

 

In front of him is the house he had come to know, for a while, as his own. A house not too different from the one he grew up in, not particularly large or small, in a town that wasn’t particularly exciting, surrounded by people he had never perceived as sufficiently ambitious. A house he had been permitted to live in by an incredibly gracious and long-suffering surgeon. A house with a kid whom he had been so relieved to see find his first best friend.  A house with a little yard out back, with little white flowers, where he had gotten married.

 

All of this happened over the course of a few months. It feels like a lot longer.

 

Kei could stand outside all night, but that’s not who he is. Sure, lately he’s lost sight of his identity, who he claims he _is_ or _isn’t_ , but he’s pretty sure he’s still a rip-the-Band-Aid-off kind of person. There have got to be some things that don’t change, no matter what gets thrown his way.

 

He walks up the front steps, fumbling for the house key he had not technically been asked to return between his thumb and his index finger.

 

Inside the house Kei is not greeted by an empty living room, as he had hoped, or—less desirably—a furious Akaashi. Ten sets of eyes meet his all at once—of course, it’s fucking Friday, the surgeon’s weirdo gory support circle he has always pretended not to find incredibly off-putting. But hey, no turning back now, not once the key is in the door.

 

Kei takes a deep breath. He ignores the way his insides shudder.

 

“Hello,” he says to the group. “I’m looking for my husband.”

 

Tadashi sits frozen on the end of the couch. He does not move.

 

Kei eyes the room full of surgeons. He’d love to do this without a crowd of people who are probably all really good with knives and scalpels and other pointy objects. Kei gets the sense they know all about his falling out with Tadashi, because they sit obstinately still, like they’re protecting him.

 

“Alright, if we’ve got to do this here, let’s do it here.”

 

No one moves.

 

“You’re not getting rid of me,” he clarifies.

 

Akaashi folds his arms, but still—the room is silent.

 

“This used to be my specialty,” he says, locking eyes with Tadashi. “I was good at—convincing people. I did it alone, in plenty of living rooms just like this one. But now I don’t know. On what was supposed to be the happiest night of my business life, it wasn’t complete, wasn’t nearly _close_ to being in the same vicinity as complete, because I couldn’t share it with you. I couldn’t hear your voice, or laugh about it with you. I missed my husband.”

 

Kei shudders. He thinks he might die, so he’d better wrap it up.

 

“We live in a cynical world, and we work in a business of tough competitors, so—try not to laugh. You complete me.”

 

“Tsukki,” Tadashi says, scrambling shakily off the couch. “Shut up.”

 

Kei meets him halfway, and Tadashi loops his hands around his neck, knocking his glasses askew with his nose as they kiss. His head smacks a picture frame on the wall when Tadashi leaps onto him, and between the anxiety and the elation and the mortifying speech, he’s woozy with the feeling of not just being where he is comfortable or happy but of being where he _belongs_. On the other side of Japan, sure, his career has just taken off again, but _this_ , right now—this living room in a suburb of Sendai, being watched by ten varyingly neurotic, nauseated surgeons, feeling so much love it would suffocate him if he weren’t projecting the same love back tenfold—this is where the two of them are meant to be.

 

And it is where they will continue to be, for the rest of their lives.

 

Kei is sure of it this time.

 

“Gee, we’d better go,” Moniwa says, as Kei presses Tadashi into the arm of the couch.

 

Akaashi is way ahead of him.

 

***

 

“This has been such a long journey for both of you.” Kabayama Yuuka, evening talk show host extraordinaire, leans forward in her chair. “Your father disappeared at such a formative age, Kageyama-san, and you met your husband when you were only fourteen years old. Does it make you feel old, reflecting back on it all, on your way to becoming one of the most formidable setters in the game?”

 

“I don’t really understand the question,” Kageyama says, “but I love volleyball, and my husband Shouyou, and my son Lev.”

 

“Not in that order, I hope,” Kabayama teases, and Tobio grimaces.

 

“I don’t get half of what this lady is saying,” he whispers, but of course his mic picks it up perfectly. Thankfully Kabayama-san is too good at her job to break, and she moves on to the next question. Kei rolls his eyes, exchanging grins with Tadashi. The interview is a blessing, but it has been a hilarious train wreck to watch those two blockheads trying to string together answers any deeper than a puddle.

 

“Well, our time is almost up here. But I have some good news for you, Hinata-san, Kageyama-san,” Kabayama says. “You could even call it great news, and this is the first time anyone is reporting it. I’ve just been informed by the producers that both of you have been invited to represent Japan in Rio in 2016, as part of the Olympic team.”

 

“We _what?!_ ” Hinata screeches so loudly it clips his mic. He grabs Kageyama’s hand and squeezes. Grins dawn on their faces like the light of a new day.

 

“I can’t believe it.” Kageyama’s words come out garbled. He scrubs at his eyes.

 

“Hey, you _said_ you weren’t gonna cry on the show!” Hinata says.

 

“Shut up,” Kageyama hisses. “I’m not crying, you’re crying!”

 

“I am! God—Tobio, we have to thank people, quick, the time’s almost up!” Hinata turns to Kabayama and leans forward on the desk, staring her dead in the eye like she’s the one responsible for relaying their gratitude. “We need to thank our baby Lev, and our friend and babysitter Noya. And I want to thank my mom and dad and Natsu, and—”

 

Kageyama cuts in. “And I want to thank my mom! And my dad, but only for being terrible, because it really pissed me off and made me practice a lot harder. And our coach, Ukai-san, and our captain Sawamura, a-and Sugawara-senpai—”

 

“Time’s up,” Kabayama says, only half-jokingly, gesturing at her watch.

 

“No! Oh! And our agent! You forgot—”

 

“I didn’t for _get_ , I was—you know, saving the best for last!”

 

“Thank you to our agent, Tsukishima Kei. This guy is our everything. We would have none of this without him.” Hinata searches for Kei in the crowd, throwing a victory sign at him. “We love you, dude!”

 

Kei, for once, finds he doesn’t mind the attention, so long as the cameras keep trained off of him. Tadashi picks up Yaku and presses a kiss to his cheek, then to Kei’s.

 

After the credits and handshakes come to an end, the three of them step out from the dark of the studio into the soft afternoon sun. It seems strange it should still be so early in the day; he wonders absentmindedly if ride home will be quick enough that they can catch the interview on late-night television. Come Monday he and Tadashi will have to deal with a whole new flood of clients and tour a couple of potential new office spaces, but for now, it’s Saturday, and Kei finally feels lucky to get to spend it with his family.

 

“That was nice,” Tadashi says. “I can’t believe we managed to keep the Olympic deal a secret for four whole days. I felt like I was going to throw up every time we ran into them.”

 

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse.

 

Tadashi laughs. “Getting emotional, Kei?”

 

Kei clears his throat. “No way. I told you, neither of us is gonna cry for at least the next five years. I won’t allow it. We deserve to be happy for at least a while after all this trouble.”

 

“You’re right. I won’t mention the _Jurassic Park_ incident, in the case.”

 

Kei scoffs. “I did not _cry_.”

 

“Sure, Kei, sure.”

 

“Yaku, tell Dad to stop bullying me.”

 

“He’s not bullying you. He likes you.”

 

“That’s no excuse,” Kei says.

 

Past the studio, in a small park, Kei spots a game of volleyball being played by a group of elementary schoolers. “Did I hit it?” one of them calls, as the ball flies way out of range.

 

“Yeah, you hit a home run.” One of the girls turns to the three of them, looping her fingers through the chain-link fence. “Hey, would you mind getting that?”

 

But before she can even finish speaking, Yaku crouches and receives the ball perfectly. Like, freakishly perfectly. The ball soars back over the fence and finds its way to their setter, who catches it, speechless.

 

“Wow,” the girl says, frozen in place. “Nice receive, kid.”

 

Kei and Tadashi look at their son, then at each other, horrified and elated.

Oh, hell no.

 

They’ll deal with this some other day.

 

“Come on, Yaku,” they say at the same time, breaking his newfound concentration on the game. He shrugs and follows them back to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you for sticking with me. my fav part of this whole fic is still tsukki's phone call with hinata in the second chapter, but i hope the rest was fun to read too.
> 
> now go watch jerry maguire, it really is the best sports romantic-dramedy of all time
> 
>  
> 
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